Truly there was a marvellous likeness, they both wearing white satin and lace, though there was pearls in my Lady Brandon’s dark hair in the stead of the cherry-coloured ribbons; nor did I find in her countenance that intrepidity and firmness that was displayed in my little cousin’s, and which she hath, I take it, from that gallant cavalier my lord her father.
“Well, Cousin Ned?” cries Dorothy, tired of standing.
“O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior,” quoth I, with a low bow.
“Speak to me in good English,” cries she, pouting.
“ ’Tis but to say (as you very well know) that my lady your mother was fair, but you are fairer, little Doll.”
“Nay,” cries she, “I won’t be called that. Sure I an’t Miss Doll any more. Sir Harry saith I am to be called Mrs Dorothy always, for I am nearly eleven. Oh, Cousin Ned, is it true that you are going to the Indies?”
“Ay, sweet Doll,” says I; “to furthest Ind, and to the kingdoms of Cathay, perhaps.”
“You are ever teasing me,” she saith. “I would I had a fan here, that I might give you a tap therewith, Master Ned. But I will have one some day. When you come back from your voyages and adventures, I shall be a court lady, like my Lady Penelope Harrington, so”—and she held up her hand like a fan, and made great eyes over the edge on’t at me.
“God forbid!” cried I, in a grievous heat.
“And why, prithee?” she asked, somewhat angered. “My mother was a court lady, so why not I?”