In the course of my talk with Brandon I had, as I have said, told him the story of Mary, with some slight variations and coloring, or rather discoloring, to make it appear a little less to my discredit than the barefaced truth would have been.  I told him also about Jane; and, I grieve and blush to say, expressed a confidence in that direction I little felt.

It had been perhaps a year since my adventure with Mary, and I had taken all that time trying to convince Jane that I did not mean a word I had said to her mistress, and that I was very earnest in everything I said to her.  But Jane’s ears would have heard just as much had they been the pair of beautiful little shells they so much resembled.  This troubled me a great deal, and the best I could hope was that she held me on probation.

On the evening of the day Mary came home to Greenwich, Brandon asked:  “Who and what on earth is this wonderful Mary I hear so much about?  They say she is coming home to-day, and the court seems to have gone mad about it; I hear nothing but ’Mary is coming!  Mary is coming!  Mary!  Mary!’ from morning until night.  They say Buckingham is beside himself for love of her.  He has a wife at home, if I am right, and is old enough to be her father.  Is he not?” I assented; and Brandon continued:  “A man who will make such a fool of himself about a woman is woefully weak.  The men of the court must be poor creatures.”

He had much to learn about the power of womanhood.  There is nothing on earth—­but you know as much about it as I do.

“Wait until you see her,” I answered, “and you will be one of them, also.  I flatter you by giving you one hour with her to be heels over head in love.  With an ordinary man it takes one-sixtieth of that time; so you see I pay a compliment to your strength of mind.”

“Nonsense!” broke in Brandon.  “Do you think I left all my wits down in Suffolk?  Why, man, she is the sister of the king, and is sought by kings and emperors.  I might as well fall in love with a twinkling star.  Then, besides, my heart is not on my sleeve.  You must think me a fool; a poor, enervated, simpering fool like—­like—­well, like one of those nobles of England.  Don’t put me down with them, Caskoden, if you would remain my friend.”

We both laughed at this sort of talk, which was a little in advance of the time, for a noble, though an idiot, to the most of England was a noble still, God-created and to be adored.

Another great bond of sympathy between Brandon and myself was a community of opinion concerning certain theories as to the equality of men and tolerance of religious thought.  We believed that these things would yet come, in spite of kingcraft and priestcraft, but wisely kept our pet theories to ourselves:  that is, between ourselves.