She shook her head. "I know not. None of us at court knows. Master Dyer
saith--but surely that one is not worthy--" She ceased to speak, nor
knew there had been in her tone both pain and wistfulness. Presently she
laughed out, with the facile gayety that one in her position must needs
be practised in. "Ah, sir, tell me her name! Is she of the court?"

He nodded, "Yes."

Damaris clapped her hands. "What lovely hypocrite have we among us? What
Lady Pure Innocence, wondering with the rest of the world?--and all the
while Cleon's latest sonnet hot against her heart! Is she tall, sir,
or short?"

"Of your height."

The lady shrugged. "Oh, I like not your half-way people! And her
hair--but halt! We know her hair is dark:

'Ah, darkness loved beyond all light!'

Her eyes--"

He bent his head, moving yet nearer to her. "Her eyes--her eyes are
wonderful! Where got you your eyes, Dione--Dione?"

Crimsoning deeply, Damaris started up, the racket escaping her clasp,
and her hands going out in a gesture of dismay and anger. "Sir,--sir,"
she stammered, "since you make a mock of me, I will begone. No, sir; let
me pass! Ah, ... how unworthy of you!"