The girl had snatched up a crust of bread and was gnawing it ravenously. He thrust his way through the guests and poured out wine for her. She took the glass with a steady hand, scarcely pausing in her meal to thank him. "But who is your master of ceremonies?" demanded the page's piping voice. William Shakespeare heard it and turned. "He is my father," said he quietly. But John Shakespeare had heard also. Wheeling about, wine-flask in hand, he faced the lad with a large and mock-elaborate bow. "That, young Sir, must be my chief title to your notice. For the rest, I am a plain gentleman of Warwickshire, of impaired but (I thank God) bettering fortune; my name John Shakespeare; my coat, or, a bend sable, charged with a lance proper. One of these fine days I may bring it to Court for you to recognise: but, alas! says Skelton-- _Age is a page For the Court full unmeet, For age cannot rage Nor buss her sweet sweet._ I shall bide at home and kiss the Queen's hand, through my son, more like." "Indeed," said the page, "I hear reports that her Majesty hath already a mind to send for him." "Is that so, Will?" His father beamed, delighted. "In some sort it is," answered Herbert, "and in some sort I am her messenger's forerunner. She will have a play of thee, Will." "The Queen?" Shakespeare turned on him sharply. "This is a fool's trick you play on me, my Lord." Yet his face flushed in spite of himself. "I tell thee, straight brow and true man, I heard the words fall from her very lips. 'He shall write us a play,' she said; 'and this Falstaff shall be the hero on't, with no foolish royalties to overlay and clog his mirth.'" "And, you see," put in the page maliciously, "we have come express to the Boar's Head to seek him out." "That," Herbert added, "is our suit to-night." "Will, lad, thy fortune's made!" John Shakespeare clapped a hand on his son's shoulder. "I shall see thee Sir William yet afore I die!" If amid the general laughter two lines of vexation wrote themselves for a moment on Shakespeare's brow they died out swiftly. He stood back a pace, eyed his father awhile with grave and tender humour, and answered the pair of courtiers with a bow. "Her Majesty's gracious notion of a play," said he, "must needs be her poor subject's pattern. If then I come to Court in motley, you, Sirs, at least will be indulgent, knowing how much a suit may disguise." The page, meeting his eye, laughed uneasily. "'Tis but a frolic----" he began. "Ay, there's the pity o't," interrupted a deep voice--Kempe's. The page laughed again, yet more nervously. "I should have said the Queen--God bless her!--desires but a frolic. And I had thought"--here he lifted his chin saucily and looked Kempe in the face--"that on Bankside they took a frolic less seriously." "Why, no," answered Kempe: "they have to take it seriously, and the cost too,--that being their business."