, to take her place as Maid of Honour to Her Royal Highness the
Duchess, and would have as little leisure as inclination to think of Mr
Simon Dale or of how he chose to amuse himself when he believed that
none was watching. Not that she had watched: her presence was the purest
and most unwelcome chance. Yet she could not but be glad to hear that
the girl was soon to go back whence she came, to the great relief (she
was sure) of Madame Dale and of her dear friends Lucy and Mary; to her
love for whom nothing--no, nothing--should make any difference. For the
girl herself she wished no harm, but she conceived that her mother must
be ill at ease concerning her.

It will be allowed that Mistress Barbara had the most of the argument if
not the best. Indeed, I found little to say, except that the village
would be the worse by so much as the Duchess of York was the better for
Mistress Barbara's departure; the civility won me nothing but the
haughtiest curtsey and a taunt.

"Must you rehearse your pretty speeches on me before you venture them on
your friends, sir?" she asked.

"I am at your mercy, Mistress Barbara," I pleaded. "Are we to part
enemies?"

She made me no answer, but I seemed to see a softening in her face as
she turned away towards the window, whence were to be seen the stretch
of the lawn and the park-meadows beyond. I believe that with a little
more coaxing she would have pardoned me, but at the instant, by another
stroke of perversity, a small figure sauntered across the sunny fields.
The fairest sights may sometimes come amiss.

"Cydaria! A fine name!" said Barbara, with curling lip. "I'll wager she
has reasons for giving no other."

"Her mother gives another to the gardener," I reminded her meekly.

"Names are as easy given as--as kisses!" she retorted. "As for Cydaria,
my lord says it is a name out of a play."

All this while we had stood at the window, watching Cydaria's light feet
trip across the meadow, and her bonnet swing wantonly in her hand. But
now Cydaria disappeared among the trunks of the beech trees.

"See, she has gone," said I in a whisper. "She is gone, Mistress
Barbara."

Barbara understood what I would say, but she was resolved to show me no
gentleness. The soft tones of my voice had been for her, but she would
not accept their homage.

"You need not sigh for that before my face," said she. "And yet, sigh if
you will. What is it to me? But she is not gone far, and, doubtless,
wil