"No, no," Roderigo replied hastily, flushing a bit from the implications of Emilia's jests sequestered within his mind's lovelorn discourse. "'Twould be my greatest pleasure to keep this which you have made." Tamping forcibly down the embarrassed which so blatantly colored him, he added, with a small, antic grin, "If your husband be not one to value the cares woven throughout women's work, and will disparage flying babes without so much of remorse or regret, allow me to assume the duty to do what he cannot."

Truly, he did not like the kerchief overmuch, but to see her unhappy was nothing he could not bear, and never could have. He had never known Emilia well, had never exchanged words with the lady, had rarely seen her about, but she was a good woman, he knew: a good wife with a steadfast heart. Even now, there was so much of worry in her countenance, and bitter, weary sorrow, that all within him that called itself gentleman felt sorely obliged to alleviate some of that distress, by whatever means necessary. If accepting this small bagatelle that had been denied a love's possession in the past was the least he could do, he would. He was not so invested in his own plights and tribulations that his heart could not find way for hers.