"No one," echoed Harry, chucking her under the chin. "Look me full in
the face, and you will find out your mistake. Marry, if I were the royal
Henry, instead of what I am, a plain Guildford merchant, I should prefer
you to Anne Boleyn."
"Is that said in good sooth, sir?" asked Mabel, slightly raising her eyes,
and instantly dropping them before the ardent gaze of the self-styled
merchant.
"In good sooth and sober truth," replied Henry, rounding his arm and
placing his hand on his lusty thigh in true royal fashion.
"Were you the royal Henry, I should not care for your preference," said
Mabel more confidently. "My grandsire says the king changes his love
as often as the moon changes--nay, oftener."
"God's death!--your grandsire is a false knave to say so! cried Harry.
"Heaven help us! you swear the king's oaths," said Mabel. "And
wherefore not, sweetheart?" said Harry, checking himself. "It is enough
to make one swear, and in a royal fashion too, to hear one's liege lord
unjustly accused. I have ever heard the king styled a mirror of
constancy. How say you, Charles Brandon?--can you not give him a
good character?"
"Oh! an excellent character," said Brandon.
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