"Already, madame." "But with whom, and why?" "With my Lord Carford. The reason I need not weary you with." "But I desire to know it." "Because my lord said that Mistress Gwyn had obtained me my commission." "But it was true." "Doubtless; yet I fought." "Why, if it were true?" I made her no answer. She went and seated herself again at the table, looking up at me with eyes in which I seemed to read pain and puzzle. "I thought it would please you, Simon," she said, with a coaxing glance that at least feigned timidity. "Never have I been so proud as on the day I received it," said I; "and never, I think, so happy, unless, may be, when you and I walked in the Manor park." "Nay, Simon, but you will be glad to have it, even though I obtained it for you." "I shall not have it. I go to Whitehall to-morrow to surrender it." She sprang up in wonder, and anger also showed in her eyes. "To surrender it? You mean in truth to surrender it? And because it came from me?" Again I could do nothing but bow. That I did with the best air I could muster, although I had no love for my part in this scene. Alas for a man who, being with her, must spend his time in chiding! "Well, I wish I hadn't remembered you," she said resentfully. "Indeed, madame, I also wish that I had forgotten." "You have, or you would never use me so." "It is my memory that makes me rough, madame. Indeed, how should I have forgotten?" "You hadn't?" she asked, advancing nearer to me. "No, in truth I believe you hadn't! And, Simon, listen!" Now she stood with her face but a yard from mine, and again her lips were curved with mirth and malice. "Listen, Simon," she said, "you had not forgotten; and you shall not forget." "It is very likely," said I simply; and I took up my hat from the table. "How fares Mistress Barbara?" asked Nell suddenly. "I have not waited on her," I answered. "Then indeed I am honoured, although our meeting was somewhat by chance. Ah, Simon, I want to be so angry with you. But how can I be angry? I can never be angry. Why" (and here she came even a little closer, and now she was smiling most damnably--nay, I mean most delightfully; but it is often much the same), "I was not very angry even when you kissed me, Simon." It is not for me to say what answer to that speech she looked to receive. Mine was no more than a repetition of my bow. "You'll keep the commission, Simon?" she whispered, standing on tiptoe, as though she would reach my ear. "I can't," said I, bowing no more, and losing, I fear, the air of grave composure that I had striven to maintain. I saw what seemed a light of triumph in her eyes. Yet that mood passed quickly from her. She grew pensive and drew away from me. I stepped towards the door, but a hand laid on my arm arrested me. "Simon," she asked, "have you sweet memories of Hatchstead?" "God forgive me," said I confusedly, "sweeter than my hopes of heaven." She looked at me gravely for an instant. Then, sighing, she said,