is not Hatchstead, nor do you seem the lady whom
I knew at Hatchstead."

"Indeed, you seem very like the gentleman I knew, and knew well, there,"
she retorted.

"And you, very unlike the lady."

"Nay, not so unlike as you think. But are you also going to preach to
me?"

"Madame," said I in cold courtesy, "I have to thank you for a good
remembrance of me, and for your kindness in doing me a service; I assure
you I prize it none the less, because I may not accept it."

"You may not accept it?" she cried. "What? You may not accept the
commission?"

"No, madame," said I, bowing low.

Her face was like a pretty child's in disappointment.

"And your arm? How come you to be wounded? Have you been quarrelling
already?"

"Already, madame."

"But with whom, and why?"

"With my Lord Carford. The reason I need not weary you with."

"But I desire to know it."

"Because my lord said that Mistress Gwyn had obtained me my commission."

"But it was true."

"Doubtless; yet I fought."

"Why, if it were true?"

I made her no answer. She went and seated herself again at the table,
looking up at me with eyes in which I seemed to read pain and puzzle.

"I thought it would please you, Simon," she said, with a coaxing glance
that at least feigned timidity.

"Never have I been so proud as on the day I received it," said I; "and
never, I think, so happy, unless, may be, when you and I walked in the
Manor park."

"Nay, Simon, but you will be glad to have it, even though I obtained it
for you."

"I shall not have it. I go to Whitehall to-morrow to surrender it."

She sprang up in wonder, and anger also showed in her eyes.

"To surrender it? You mean in truth to surrender it? And because it came
from me?"

Again I could do nothing but bow. That I did with the best air I could
muster, although I had no love for my part in this scene. Alas for a man
who, being with her, must spend his time in chiding!

"Well, I wish I hadn't remembered you," she said resentfully.

"Indeed, madame, I also wish that I had forgotten."

"You have, or you would never use me so."

"It is my memory that makes me rough, madame. Indeed, how should I have
forgotten?"

"You hadn't?" she asked, advancing nearer to me. "No, in truth I believe
you hadn't! And, Simon, listen!" Now she stood with her face but a yard
from mine, and again her lips were curved with mirth and malice.
"Listen, Simon," she said, "you had not forgotten; and you shall