"How old is she now?" The Lady Ysolinde's next question leaped out like the flash of a dagger from its sheath.
"That," answered I, meditatively, "I know not exactly, because none could tell how old she was when she came to us."
"Tut," she said, impatiently tossing her head, "do not twist your answers to me—only wise men and courtiers have the skill to do that and hide it. As yet you are neither. Is she ten, or is she twenty, or is she mid-way betwixt the two?"
"I think she may be a matter of seventeen years of age."
"Is she pretty?" was the next question.
"No," said I, not knowing well what to say.
Her face cleared as she heard that, and then, in a little, her eyes being still bent steadily on me, reading my very heart, it clouded over again.
"You think her not merely pretty, then, but beautiful?" she asked.
I nodded.
"More beautiful than I?"