Twenty pairs of masculine eyes were turned upon her beauty, but none so ardently as the young one's across the table.
"Look your last on my fine shape," she proclaimed in her high, rich voice.

"You will see but little of the lower part of it when it is hid in farthingales and petticoats.

Look your last before I go to don my fine lady's furbelows." And when they filled their glasses and lifted them and shouted admiring jests to her, she broke into one of her stable-boy songs, and sang it in the voice of a skylark.
No man among them was used to showing her the courtesies of polite breeding.

She had been too long a boy to them for that to have entered any mind, and when she finished her song, sprang down, and made for the door, Sir John beheld his long-looked-for chance, and was there before her to open it with a great bow, made with his hand upon his heart and his fair locks falling.
"You rob us of the rapture of beholding great beauties, Madam," he said in a low, impassioned voice.

"But there should be indeed but _one_ happy man whose bliss it is to gaze upon such perfections." "I am fifteen years old to-night," she answered; "and as yet I have not set eyes upon him." "How do you know that, madam ?" he said, bowing lower still.
She laughed her great rich laugh.
"Forsooth, I do not know," she retorted.