Of a Meeting near Fulham
“What style do they put upon this cockatrice, you old satyr?” I says.
If he had taken any suspicions that I had unmasked him this must have settled them, and he replied sedately—“Faith, among so many I can scarce—but yes,” he says, “this must be Mistress Barbara.”
“Barbara,” says I, smacking my lips, “An’ I like the wench as well as her name, I’ll warrant Mistress Barbara and I should be capital company together.”
“Ah,” says he, showing his teeth in a soft smile. “But I would have you warned that this same Barbara hath a spirit. She is particular to the point of phantasy. I have remonstrated more times than I can remember upon her whimsies, but she will aye fly out. They will bear no remedy.”
“As for that,” I said briskly, “I like ’em best with the diabolic. A stark woman and a fist o’ nails for me! ’Tis a welcome diversion for a fellow of mettle.”
But all this time I was casting about to nominate the wench congruous to the rumours
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