The matter was thus decided. Yet now, in quiet blood and in the secrecy of my own soul, shall I ask wherefore the letter came from Mistress Gwyn, to whom the shortest letter was no light matter, and to let even a humble man go some small sacrifice? And why did it come to Barbara and not to me? And why did it not say "Simon, she loves you," rather than the words that I now read, Barbara permitting me: "Pretty fool, he loves you." Let me not ask; not even now would Barbara bear to think that it was written in pity for her. "Yes, she pitied you and so she wrote; and she loves you," said Barbara. I let it pass. Shall a man never learn wisdom? "Tell me now," said I, "why I may not see Carford?" Her lips curved in a smile; she held her head high, and her eyes were triumphant. "You may see Lord Carford as soon as you will, Simon," said she. "But a few minutes ago----" I began, much puzzled. "A few minutes!" cried Barbara reproachfully. "A whole lifetime ago, sweetheart!" "And shall that make no changes?" "A whole lifetime ago you were ready to die sooner than let me see him." "Simon, you're very----He knew, I told him." "You told him?" I cried. "Before you told me?" "He asked me before," said Barbara. I did not grudge her that retort; every jot of her joy was joy to me, and her triumph my delight. "How did I dare to tell him?" she asked herself softly. "Ah, but how have I contrived not to tell all the world? How wasn't it plain in my face?" "It was most profoundly hidden," I assured her. Indeed from me it had been; but Barbara's wit had yet another answer. "You were looking in another face," said she. Then, as the movement of my hands protested, remorse seized on her, and catching my hand she cried impulsively, "I'll never speak of it again, Simon." Now I was not so much ashamed of the affair as to demand that utter silence on it; in which point lies a difference between men and women. To have wandered troubles our consciences little, when we have come to the right path again; their pride stands so strong in constancy as sometimes (I speak in trembling) even to beget an oblivion of its falterings and make what could not have been as if it had not. But now was not the moment for excuse, and I took my pardon with all gratitude and with full allowance of my offence's enormity.