“Leddy, ’twas a’ by the inspiration o’ the moment.” “Then pray be ‘inspired’ again, sir.” Sir Hector flushed, glanced at her little, helpless feet, her roguish eyes, fumbled with his hat and dropped it; the little Duchess giggled. Then Sir Hector took a deep breath and reached out his arms. V Sir John, giving hat and cloak to the placid Betty, glanced round the small room. “Pray tell your lady that Sir John Dering awaits her pleasure,” said he, whereupon Betty curtsied, dimpled and withdrew, leaving him to shoot his ruffles, adjust his laced jabot and glance into the mirror a little anxiously, for now that the moment was at hand he was conscious of a vague unease, a growing apprehension that plagued and puzzled him: “How would she receive him?” Here was the question to which he found no answer. Thus, for once unsure of himself, he shot ruffles, adjusted cravat and glanced into the mirror all over again. Then the door opened and she stood before him, a radiant vision, magnificently gowned, a glorious creature deep-eyed, red-lipped, vivid with youth and strength, a woman nobly shaped, assured and confident in her beauty. Proudly she swept towards him, closing the door behind her while he stared motionless and tongue-tied, overwhelmed by the majesty of her. “Madam!” he murmured at last. “Herminia!” and he bowed. “Sir!” said she, and sank down in billowing, gracious curtsy; but, alas! as she arose her voluminous draperies caught up a three-legged stool; in freeing herself of this, her panniers swept a china ornament crashing to the floor; in turning to scowl at the fragments, over went the little table, and, startled by its fall, she caught high heel in embroidered skirt and would have fallen but for Sir John’s ready aid. “Faith, my lady,” he laughed, “we creatures of art be sadly out o’ place among these homely things! Better my gentle Rose in her simple tire, thy rustical John in his homespun——” “Loose me!” she cried passionately, and he was amazed to see he clasped a raging fury. “Let me go!” she repeated. Mutely he obeyed, and she fronted him, pale with anger and mortified pride. “Nay, Herminia,” he pleaded, “be it satin or merest rags, thou and only thou art she I love!” And he would have taken her hands, but she retreated with superb gesture and, catching the folds of her gown on the arm of a chair, ripped it irretrievably. At this final catastrophe she halted between laughter and tears, but, meeting his look, chose the third alternative. “Sir, you ... laugh at me, I think?” “With thee, rather, my lady,” he answered; “for, O Herminia, an ordinary cottage cramps and cannot hold us ’twould seem, nay, the whole wide world were scarce great enough for such love as ours.” “I pray you speak for yourself, Sir John.”