He gazed in astonishment at the parcel of sheets she handed to him, and he but glanced at the first page when he exclaimed.
"Why, I have heard naught of this before."
"Nay, sir," said she, with a calm smile, "the infant is but young—but a few weeks, as I take it; it hath had but little chance of making a noise in the world as yet. Will you say what you think of it?"
But now he was busy reading. Then by and by she recollected something of the manner in which she had meant to introduce the play.
"You see, sir, my father hath many affairs on his hands; 'tis not all his time he can give to such things. And yet I have heard that they be well spoken of in London—if not by the wits, perchance, or by the court ladies, at least by the common people and the 'prentices. We in these parts have but little skill of learning; but—but methinks 'tis a pretty story—is it not, good sir?—and perchance as interesting as a speech from a goddess among the clouds?"
"In truth it is a rare invention," said he, but absently, for his whole and rapt attention was fixed on the sheets.
She, seeing him so absorbed, did not interfere further. She sat still and content—perhaps with a certain sedate triumph in her eyes. She listened to the rustling of the elms overhead, and watched the white clouds slowly crossing the blue, and the tawny-hued river lazily and noiselessly stealing by below the bushes. The corn-crake was silent now—there was not even that interruption; and when the bell in the church tower began to toll, it was so soft and faint and distant that she thought it most likely he would not even hear it. And at what point was he now? At the story of how the sweet Miranda came to grow up in exile? Or listening to Ariel's song? Or watching the prince approach this new wonder of the magic island? Her eyes were full of triumph. "Ben Jonson!" she had said.
But suddenly he closed the sheets together.
"It were unmannerly so to keep you waiting," said he.
"Nay, heed not that, good sir," she said instantly. "I pray you go on with the reading. How like you it? 'Tis a pretty story, methinks; but my father hath been so busy of late—what with acres, and tithes, and sheep, and malt and the like—that perchance he hath not given all his mind to it."