“My father loved his violet beds,” she said.
“Wise man—wise man. A garden makes thoughts sprout as though they would keep time to the leaves. You shall see my garden. Let me see, what road are you for following?”
“The road to fortune, Master Eudol.”
“Truth, then, it must run near my doorway. The good woman who keeps house for me will make you most welcome. You must rest on your journey.”
“You are very good.”
“Not a bit of it, my dear. I shall call you St. Igraine—hee, hee!—and you will ripen all the apples in my orchard by looking at ’em. Faith, am I not a wag?”
“You ought to be at court, sir.”
“Hee, hee!”
“You would make all the young squires red with envy.”
“My dear, my dear!”