Sam returned to the hall to find Mr. Frodo leaning against the table rubbing his head, a faraway look in his eye.  He did not look entirely right.

Sam ran up to him.  “Mr. Frodo?  Are you—”

“It’s fine,” said Frodo, batting him away.  “I deserved it.”

There was a very large, red handprint on his cheek.

“Deserved what?”

“I sang ‘The Postal Lass from Delving,’ and one of the fine ladies here took it the wrong way.  I’m still not entirely sure how, mind…”

“It’s quite simple, master pherian,” said the lady in question—the one, Sam realized with horror, that Merry and Pippin had squirreled the peacock feathers out of earlier.  “I do not know what the standards are in your country, but in Gondor, one simply does not sing of fallen women in polite society!”

What in the Shire is a fallen woman? thought Sam.

A light of realization was dawning in Frodo’s eyes, however.  “My lady,” he said, bowing low, “my deepest apologies.  In my country, we have no such standards, because we have no such women!  The lady in question was—a courier, nothing more, and I assure you that she did nothing beyond innocent flirting and one kiss that got her in trouble later.  In fact, if you had let me finish the song, you would have seen what would have happened once all her beaux ran into each other at the Free Fair.”

“But the song said she worked the world!”

“No,” Sam put in, “She worked, the world to see.  She worked to see the world.”  What would working the world even mean?

The lady puffed herself up like a peahen.  “Well,” she said.  “I still do not approve of the song, and I do not regret putting an end to it!  You’d think the whole City had gone mad.”

“It has,” Sam muttered.

“And don’t think this is over, either, sir!  I’ll tell the King!”  She nodded.  “Which one do you serve, again?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Frodo.

“Rohan or Gondor?  Which one?”

“Neither,” said Mr. Frodo.

“Ma’am,” said Sam, “I think you’ve gotten my master confused with someone else.  This here isn’t Mr. Merry nor Mr. Pippin, it’s Frodo Baggins, the Cormica…”

“Cormacolindo,” Frodo supplied.

“The Ring-bearer.”

“Oh,” said the lady.  “Then who were those two other Halflings I met earlier?”

“My two cousins,” said Frodo, sighing.  “One of whom is sworn to Gondor, and the other to Rohan.”

“My lord,” said the lady, curtseying deeply, “please forgive me!  If I had known…”

“If you had known,” said Frodo, “you still should have behaved as you did.  The song I sang was indeed disrespectful, and not even kings should be immune from justice when they insult the fairer sex.”

Just then, the door to the hall boomed open, and in stormed the lady of Dol Amroth, Éomer King in tow.  She looked every inch a damsel in distress, while he looked furious.  “Father?” said Lothíriel, her voice rising hysterically.