"Nay, lad, since it comes, take it without question. Whatever the source of it, your own conduct may make it an honour." But I could not be content with that. "The letter says," I remarked, "that the King is mindful of my father's services." "I had thought that the age of miracles was past," smiled my lord. "Perhaps it is not, Simon." "Then if it be not for my father's sake nor for yours, my lord, I am at a loss," and I stuffed the letter into my pocket very peevishly. "I must be on my way," said my lord, turning towards the coach. "Let me hear from you when you come, Simon; and I suppose you will come soon now. You will find me at my house in Southampton Square, and my lady will be glad of your company." I thanked him for his civility, but my face was still clouded. He had seemed to suspect and hint at some taint in the fountain of honour that had so unexpectedly flowed forth. "I can't tell what to make of it," I cried. He stopped again, as he was about to set his foot on the step of his coach, and turned, facing me squarely. "There's no other friend at all in London, Simon?" he asked. Again I grew red, as he stood watching me. "Is there not one other?" I collected myself as well as I could and answered, "One that would give me a commission in the Life Guards, my lord?" And I laughed in scorn. My lord shrugged his shoulders and mounted into the coach. I closed the door behind him, and stood waiting his reply. He leant forward and spoke across me to the lackey behind, saying, "Go on, go on." "What do you mean, my lord?" I cried. He smiled, but did not speak. The coach began to move; I had to walk to keep my place, soon I should have to run. "My lord," I cried, "how could she----?" My lord took out his snuff-box, and opened it. "Nay, I cannot tell how," said he, as he carried his thumb to his nose. "My lord," I cried, running now, "do you know who Cydaria is?" My lord looked at me, as I ran panting. Soon I should have to give in, for the horses made merry play down the avenue. He seemed to wait for the last moment of my endurance, before he answered. Then, waving his hand at the window, he said, "All London knows." And with that he shut the window, and I fell back breathless, amazed, and miserably chagrined. For he had told me nothing of all that I desired to know, and what he had told me did no more than inflame my curiosity most unbearably. Yet, if it were true, this mysterious lady, known to all London, had remembered Simon Dale! A man of seventy would have been moved by such a thing; what wonder that a boy of twenty-two should run half mad with it?