“Three pinafores and two aprons! Who’s that there—old Purcell’s widow? She is as plump as a fat hen! And the one there by the window, who’s she?”
Tom Temple appealed to Hortense.
“Anne Purcell’s daughter.”
“A sour, scratch-your-face looking wench! Zounds, Tom, begin your mission there! Go and kiss her, or I’ll knock your head against the wall.”
He laughed, as though hugely tickled, while the majority of the men, who had been listening, exchanged glances, and divided their curiosity between the girl by the window, my Lord Pembroke, and Bishop Tom.
Hortense had drawn aside, and was bending over Anne Purcell. There may have been a motive in the move. Possibly she did not wish to countenance the joke, and yet desired to profit by the information she might gain thereby.
The bishop looked embarrassed.
“If you will lend me your countenance, my lord—”
“Go and kiss her.”
“On my conscience, sir, but—”