“Good gentleman,” she answered, sedately, “I think that few are the bees that gather so dainty a wax, but if they be flown to Hymettus, then to Hymettus might one follow them; also that precious stone may be found, though, alack! often enough a man is so poor a lapidary that, seeing only the covering of circumstances, he misses the true sapphire! and for that fragrant leaf, I have heard of it in my day—­”

“It is called truelove,” he said.

Damaris kept to the card:  “My marvel, sir, is to hear you speak as though you had not the charm you seem to seek.  One blossom of the tree Alpina is worth all store of roses; one ruby outvalueth many pearls; he who hath already the word of magic needeth to buy no Venus’s image; and Sir Mortimer Ferne, secure in Dione’s love, saileth, methinks, in crystal seas, with slight danger from storm and wreck.”

“Secure in Dione’s love!” repeated Ferne.  “Ah, lady, your shaft has gone wide.  I have sailed, and sailed, and sailed—­ay, and in crystal seas—­and have seen blooms fairer than the tree Alpina, and have been in the land of emeralds and where pearls do grow, and yet have never gathered the fragrant leaf, that leaf of true and mutual love.  It should grow with the laurel and blend with the bay—­ay, and be not missing from the cypress wreath!  But as yet I have it not—­as yet I have it not.”

Damaris gazed upon him with brown, incredulous eyes, and when she spoke her words came somewhat breathlessly, having quite outgone the courtly affectation of similes run mad.

“What mean you, sir?  Not the love of Astrophel for Stella is better known than that of Cleon for Dione!  And, lo! now your own lines—­Master Dyer showed them to me but the other day copied into his book of songs: 

     ’Nor in my watery wanderings am I crossed;
     Where haven’s wanted, there I haven find,
     Nor e’er for me is star of guidance lost—­’”

Her voice breaking a little, Ferne made nearer approach to the green bank where she rested.  “Do you learn by heart my verses, lady?” he asked.

“Ay,” she answered, “I did ever love sweet poetry.”  Her voice thrilled, and she gazed past him at the blue heaven showing between the oak leaves.  “If prayer with every breath availeth,” she said, “no doubt your Dione will bring your safe return.”

“Of whom do I write, calling her Dione?”

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?”