The cheerful timbres in her voice became Emilia well, Desdemona thought. Surely it could not have been any ill circumstance that had made the morning strange to her; if such was the case it would be apparent in her manner. Emilia's gladness was in earnest, Desdemona was sure; certainly not the fiercest liar in the world could imitate such a sweet laugh and not have more than a little of his heart in it! She bid her worries farewell, both confident and thankful that no poor fortunes had befallen her friend.
"'Mischief', speak you," repeated Desdemona good-naturedly, rising once more from her place, setting the embroidery on a table. "If I think you a mother, do you think me an imp?" She beamed as she took Emilia's hand and began to walk with her. "Kerchief, mischief-think you these my chief diversions? Chiefly, at this moment, I should like to go out of doors, and peradventure the mischief should follow, though the kerchief shall stay within-this kerchief, however, shall come withal," she said cleverly as she gestured toward her personal handkerchief-the handkerchief, indeed; it deserved the distinction, being her husband's first gift to her and a lovely trinket besides.
Desdemona laughed, first with delight at her quip, and then with a mild bashfulness. "Heaven save me; I begin to sound like that pitiful Clown who does so often haunt the courtyard with his poor wit."
