f vengeance, which made him cling to a life he had proved
worthless and ugly, and that otherwise he had likely enough cast from
him. And as they walked:

"Sir Crispin," she ventured timidly, "you are unhappy, are you not?"

Startled by her words and the tone of them, Galliard turned his head
that he might observe her.

"I, unhappy?" he laughed; and it was a laugh calculated to acknowledge
the fitness of her question, rather than to refute it as he intended.
"Am I a clown, Cynthia, to own myself unhappy at such a season and while
you honour me with your company?"

She made a wry face in protest that he fenced with her.

"You are happy, then?" she challenged him.

"What is happiness?" quoth he, much as Pilate may have questioned what
was truth. Then before she could reply he hastened to add: "I have not
been quite so happy these many years."

"It is not of the present moment that I speak," she answered
reprovingly, for she scented no more than a compliment in his words,
"but of your life."

Now either was he imbued with a sense of modesty touching the deeds
of that life of his, or else did he wisely realize that no theme could
there he less suited to discourse upon with an innocent maid.

"Mistress Cynthia," said he as though he had not heard her question, "I
would say a word to you concerning Kenneth."

At that she turned upon him with a pout.

"But it is concerning yourself that I would have you talk. It is not
nice to disobey a lady. Besides, I have little interest in Master
Stewart."

"To have little interest in a future husband augurs ill for the time
when he shall come to be your husband."

"I thought that you, at least, understood me. Kenneth will never be
husband of mine, Sir Crispin."

"Cynthia!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, lackaday! Am I to wed a doll?" she demanded. "Is he--is he a man a
maid may love, Sir Crispin?"

"Indeed, had you but seen the half of life that I have seen," said he
unthinkingly, "it might amaze you what manner of man a maid may love--or
at least may marry. Come, Cynthia, what fault do you find with him?"

"Why, every fault."

He laughed in unbelief.

"And whom are we to blame for all these faults that have turned you so
against him?"

"Whom?"

"Yourself, Cynthia. You use him ill, child. If his behaviour has been
extravagant, you are to blame. You are severe with him, and he, in his
rash endeavours to present himself in a guise that shall render him
commendable in your e