“There is the Abbey, sir.”
“The Abbey!” And Mr. Pepys tossed the suggestion aside as superfluous. “I shall see enough of it, Betty, when my Lord Montague reaches us. Are there any houses hereabouts where murder has been committed, or a plot hatched, or a king been entertained. We like to see the shows.”
The girl leaned against the door-post with the tray lodged jauntily upon one hip, and her green stays with their red laces showing off a very embraceable figure.
“There is Bodjam Castle, sir.”
“Bodjam—Bodjam. What a name, my dear, for a cobbler! It likes me little.” And he admired the red petticoat and the green stays.
“Hastings Town—and Castle, sir.”
“Fish and old stones! No, John, eh; no Betty. Try me again.”
“Perhaps Rye Town would please you, sir.”
“A wry road, no doubt, which is more than your figure is, my dear; not wry, I mean, but trim as—well—just what you please.”
The girl laughed, perked up her chin, and glanced at John Gore as though he looked a sturdy fellow, and as though she expected him to wink.