"What wench?" inquired Ermsby, in whose thoughts there had been more than one wench since the reader first made his acquaintance.
"What wench! Gods above, is there more than one?—worth a man's lying awake at night to sigh for, I mean."
"And is there one such, then? Faith, an there be, I have not seen her of late."
"Yes, you have. Scarce three months ago."
"That's three ages, where women are concerned. Who is this incomparable she?"
"That goldsmith's daughter—you remember the night we chased her from Cheapside down Bread Street, and came near a quarrel with Ravenshaw the bully, and I followed to see where she lived?"
"Faith, I remember. A pretty little thing. And she has held you off all this time? Man, man, you must have blundered terribly! What plan of campaign have you employed against her?"
"I have not been able to pass words with her, I tell you. She rarely goes forth from home at all, and when she does 'tis with both parents, and a woman, and a stout 'prentice or two. I have stood in wait night after night, thinking she might try to run away again; but she has not."
"Why, you know not your first letter in the study of how to woo citizens' womankind. Go to her father's shop while she is there, and contrive to have her wait upon you. Flattery, vows, and promises sound all the softer for being whispered over a counter."