"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, will not run too fast when you pursue." "When you are in London," said I, "you will think with remorse how ill you used me." "I shall never think of you at all. Do you forget that there are gentlemen of wit and breeding at the Court?" "The devil fly away with every one of them!" cried I suddenly, not knowing then how well the better part of them would match their escort. Barbara turned to me; there was a gleam of triumph in the depths of her dark eyes. "Perhaps when you hear of me at Court," she cried, "you'll be sorry to think how----" But she broke off suddenly, and looked out of the window. "You'll find a husband there," I suggested bitterly. "Like enough," said she carelessly. To be plain, I was in no happy mood. Her going grieved me to the heart, and that she should go thus incensed stung me yet more. I was jealous of every man in London town. Had not my argument, then, some reason in it after all? "Fare-you-well, madame," said I, with a heavy frown and a sweeping bow. No player from the Lane could have been more tragic. "Fare-you-well, sir. I will not detain you, for you have, I know, other farewells to make." "Not for a week yet!" I cried, goaded to a show of exultation that Cydaria stayed so long. "I don't doubt that you'll make good use of the time," she said, as with a fine dignity she waved me to the door. Girl as she was, she had caught or inherited the grand air that great ladies use. Gloomily I passed out, to fall into the hands of my lord, who was walking on the terrace. He caught me by the arm, laughing in good-humoured mockery.