"Sweet, sweet, ye're all alike, all womankind. My first wife was so, and my second wife was so; and now my third that is to be."
The girl's face blazed like a poppy with fury, and her blue eyes flashed with rebellion. She looked all the more young, and fresh, and warm with life, for that; and when Ravenshaw glanced from her to the colourless, shrivelled old knight—from the humid rose in its first bloom, to the withered rush—he felt for an instant a choking sickness of disgust. But the girl's parents remained serenely callous, and the old coxcomb, with equal insensibility, prattled on, putting it to the blame of nature that he should be, without intent, so much the desire of ladies and the jealousy of his wives past and to come.
Meanwhile Mistress Etheridge, having silently left the room with the woman Lettice, returned alone, and begged Sir Peregrine to come and partake of a little supper. From the knight's alacrity in accepting, it was plain he had honoured the family doubly,—first by tarrying to change his clothes for his call, and then by not tarrying to eat before coming to them, an additional honour that Mistress Etheridge had divined. With courtly bows and flourishes, he followed her toward the dining-chamber; whither he was followed in turn, for politeness' sake, by the goldsmith, who apologised to Ravenshaw for leaving him.
Whatever were the captain's feelings, Mistress Millicent seemed glad, or at least relieved, to be alone with him.
"I wish you joy of your coming marriage," said Ravenshaw, tentatively.
"You would as well wish me joy of my death," she replied, with a mixture of anger and forlornness.
He rose and walked over to the fireplace, near her.
"Why, 'tis true," quoth he; "when the bride is young, the arms of an old husband are a grave."
"Worse! When one is dead in one's grave, one knows nothing; but to be alive in those arms—foh!"
"Your good parents will have you take this husband, I trow, whether you will or no?"