“It has cut many, however,” said Anthony Foster, half aside, and looking at Varney. By this time the knot was disentangled without any other help than the neat and nimble fingers of Janet, a simply attired pretty maiden, the daughter of Anthony Foster, who came running at the repeated call of her mistress. A necklace of orient pearl, the companion of a perfumed billet, was now hastily produced from the packet. The lady gave the one, after a slight glance, to the charge of her attendant, while she read, or rather devoured, the contents of the other.
“Surely, lady,” said Janet, gazing with admiration at the neck-string of pearls, “the daughters of Tyre wore no fairer neck-jewels than these—And then the posy, ‘For a neck that is fairer,’—each pearl is worth a freehold.”
“Each word in this dear paper is worth the whole string, my girl—But come to my tiring-room, girl; we must be brave, my lord comes hither to-night.—He bids me grace you, Master Varney, and to me his wish is a law.—I bid you to a collation in my bower this afternoon, and you, too, Master Foster. Give orders that all is fitting, and that suitable preparations be made for my lord’s reception tonight.” With these words she left the apartment.
“She takes state on her already,” said Varney, “and distributes the favour of her presence, as if she were already the partner of his dignity—Well—it is wise to practise beforehand the part which fortune prepares us to play—the young eagle must
