“Nay,” said Dame Ursula, “there be some who say that Frank Tunstall is as proper a lad as Jin Vin, and of surety he is third cousin to a knighthood, and come of a good house; and so mayhap you may be for northward ho!”
“Maybe I may”—answered Margaret, “but not with my father's 'prentice—I thank you, Dame Ursula.”
“Nay, then, the devil may guess your thoughts for me,” said Dame Ursula; “this comes of trying to shoe a filly that is eternally wincing and shifting ground!”
“Hear me, then,” said Margaret, “and mind what I say.—This day I dined abroad—”
“I can tell you where,” answered her counsellor,—“with your godfather the rich goldsmith—ay, you see I know something—nay, I could tell you, as I would, with whom, too.”
“Indeed!” said Margaret, turning suddenly round with an accent of strong surprise, and colouring up to the eyes.
“With old Sir Mungo Malagrowther,” said the oracular dame,—“he was trimmed in my Benjamin's shop in his way to the city.”
“Pshaw! the frightful old mouldy skeleton!” said the damsel.
“Indeed you say true, my dear,” replied the confidant,—“it is a shame to him to be out of Saint Pancras's charnel-house, for I know no other place he is fit for, the foul-mouthed old railer. He said to my husband—”
“Somewhat which signifies nothing to our purpose, I dare say,” interrupted Margaret. “I must speak, then.—There dined with us a nobleman—”