It was a golden summer's evening when I, to whom the golden world was all a hell, came by tryst to the park of Quinton Manor, there to bid Cydaria farewell. Mother and sisters had looked askance at me, the village gossiped, even the Vicar shook a kindly head. What cared I? By Heaven, why was one man a nobleman and rich, while another had no money in his purse and but one change to his back? Was not love all in all, and why did Cydaria laugh at a truth so manifest? There she was under the beech tree, with her sweet face screwed up to a burlesque of grief, her little hand lying on her hard heart as though it beat for me, and her eyes the playground of a thousand quick expressions. I strode up to her, and caught her by the hand, saying no more than just her name, "Cydaria." It seemed that there was no more to say; yet she cried, laughing and reproachful, "Have you no vows for me? Must I go without my tribute?" I loosed her hand and stood away from her. On my soul, I could not speak. I was tongue-tied, dumb as a dog. "When you come courting in London," she said, "you must not come so empty of lover's baggage. There ladies ask vows, and protestations, and despair, ay, and poetry, and rhapsodies, and I know not what." "Of all these I have nothing but despair," said I. "Then you make a sad lover," she pouted. "And I am glad to be going where lovers are less woebegone." "You look for lovers in London?" I cried, I that had cried to Barbara--well, I have said my say on that. "If Heaven send them," answered Cydaria. "And you will forget me?" "In truth, yes, unless you come yourself to remind me. I have no head for absent lovers." "But if I come----" I began in a sudden flush of hope. She did not (though it was her custom) answer in raillery; she plucked a leaf from the tree, and tore it with her fingers as she answered with a curious glance. "Why, if you come, I think you'll wish that you had not come, unless, indeed, you've forgotten me before you come." "Forget you! Never while I live! May I come, Cydaria?" "Most certainly, sir, so soon as your wardrobe and your purse allow. Nay, don't be huffed. Come, Simon, sweet Simon, are we not friends, and may not friends rally one another? No, and if I choose, I will put my hand through your arm. Indeed, sir, you're the first gentleman that ever thrust it away. See, it is there now! Doesn't it look well there, Simon--and feel well there, Simon?" She looked up into my face in coaxing apology for the hurt she had given me, and yet still with mockery of my tragic airs. "Yes, you must by all means come to London," she went on, patting my arm. "Is not Mistress Barbara in London? And I think--am I wrong, Simon?--that there is something for which you will want to ask her pardon." "If I come to London, it is for you and you only that I shall come," I cried.