He drops his head and scrubs his face with his hands, laughing tiredly. "I saw no cause for shame. But I own I would make a poor maid to young ladies, were I called upon to scold them into the strictest propriety. Art thou sick at the thought of sitting too near me for its own sake--it may be I have an ill breath or a pestilent look!--or because nice customs dictate that a gentleman's daughter may not sit where a page would lounge with ease?"

It's probably an unfair question, and he waves it off. "I have a fine plan: go and catch thee another cold, so that we may sit and talk. Or shall I make thee knight of the garter, that thou shalt have it ever in writing: Honi soit qui mal y pense?"