Grisell knew her duty too well not to kneel down when admitted. A dark-complexioned lady came to lead her forward, and directed her to kneel twice on her way to the Duchess. She obeyed, and in that indescribable manner which betrayed something of her breeding, so that after her second obeisance, the manner of the lady altered visibly from what it had been at first as to a burgher maiden. The wealth and luxury of the citizen world of the Low Countries caused the proud and jealous nobility to treat them with the greater distance of manner. And, as Grisell afterwards learnt, this was Isabel de Souza, Countess of Poitiers, a Portuguese lady who had come over with her Infanta; and whose daughter produced _Les Honneurs de la Cour_, the most wonderful of all descriptions of the formalities of the Court. Grisell remained kneeling on the steps of the dais, while the Duchess addressed her in much more imperfect Flemish than she could by this time speak herself. “You are the lace weaver, maiden. Can you speak French?” “_Oui_, _si madame_, _son Altese le veut_,” replied Grisell, for her tongue had likewise become accustomed to French in this city of many tongues. “This is English make,” said the Duchess, not with a very good French accent either, looking at the specimens handed by her lady. “Are you English?” “So please your Highness, I am.” “An exile?” the Princess added kindly. “Yes, madame. All my family perished in our wars, and I owe shelter to the good Apothecary, Master Lambert.” “Purveyor of drugs to the sisters. Yes, I have heard of him;” and she then proceeded with her orders, desiring to see the first piece Grisell should produce in the pattern she wished, which was to be of roses in honour of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, whom the Peninsular Isabels reckoned as their namesake and patroness. It was a pattern which would require fresh pricking out, and much skill; but Grisell thought she could accomplish it, and took her leave, kissing the Duchess’s hand—a great favour to be granted to her—curtseying three times, and walking backwards, after the old training that seemed to come back to her with the atmosphere. Master Lambert was overjoyed when he heard all. “Now you will find your way back to your proper station and rank,” he said. “It may do more than that,” said Grisell. “If I could plead his cause.” Lambert only sighed. “I would fain your way was not won by a base, mechanical art,” he said. “Out on you, my master. The needle and the bobbin are unworthy of none; and as to the honour of the matter, what did Sir Leonard tell us but that the Countess of Oxford, as now she is, was maintaining her husband by her needle?” and Grisell ended with a sigh at thought of the happy woman whose husband knew of, and was grateful for, her toils.