"A journey, sir?"

"Ay, I go with the Duke of Monmouth, and you go with me, to Dover when
the King goes."

Now, either Dover was on everybody's brain, or was very sadly on my
brain, for I swear even this fellow's eye seemed to brighten as I named
the place.

"To Dover, sir?"

"No less. You shall see all the gaiety there is to be seen, Jonah."

The flush of interest had died away; he was dolefully tranquil and
submissive again.

"Well, what do you want with me?" I asked, for I did not wish him to
suspect that I detected any change in his manner.

"A lady came here to-day, sir, in a very fine coach with Flemish
horses, and asked for you. Hearing you were from home, she called to me
and bade me take a message for you. I prayed her to write it, but she
laughed, and said she spoke more easily than she wrote; and she bade me
say that she wished to see you."

"What sort of lady was she, Jonah?"

"She sat all the while in the coach, sir, but she seemed not tall; she
was very merry, sir." Jonah sighed deeply; with him merriment stood high
among the vices of our nature.

"She didn't say for what purpose she wanted me?" I asked as carelessly
as I could.

"No, sir. She said you would know the purpose, and that she would look
for you at noon to-morrow."

"But where, Jonah?"

"At a house called Burford House, sir, in Chelsea."

"She gave you no name?"

"I asked her name, and she gave me one."

"What was it?"

"It was a strange heathenish name, and she laughed as she gave it;
indeed she laughed all the time."

"There's no sin in laughter," said I dryly. "You may leave me, I need no
help in undressing."

"But the name----"

"By Heaven, man, I know the name! Be off with you!"

He shuffled off, his whole manner expressing reprobation, whether most
of my oath, or of the heathenish name, or of the lady who gave it, I
know not.

Well, if he were so horror-stricken at these things, what would he say
at learning with whom he had talked? Perhaps he would have preached to
her, as had Phineas Tate, his master in religion. For, beyond doubt,
that heathenish name was Cydaria, and that fine coach with Flemish
horses--I left the question of that coach unanswered.

The moment the door was shut behind my servant I sprang to my feet,
crying in a low but very vehement voice, "Never!" I would not go. Had
she not wounded me enough? Must I tear away the bandage from the gash?
She had tortured me, and asked me now, with a la