But it seemed my lady had no mind to permit this, for she tapped the floor with insistent foot, fidgeted with the blind, let down the window and closed it again noisily. But Sir John, having closed his eyes, kept them fast shut; whereupon my lady turned her back upon him pettishly, and frowned at the rising moon. But presently she stole a glance at her companion, and judging him truly asleep, slipped back her hood, shook her curls and slowly, gently, suffered herself to sway over towards him until her head was pillowed beside his. And after some while Sir John, vaguely conscious of a persistent tickling, opened drowsy eyes to find this occasioned by a lock of hair that stirred upon his cheek. Slowly and with infinite caution he drew a small leather case from his pocket, whence he abstracted a pair of scissors and therewith deftly snipped off this errant curl and, tucking it safely out of sight, returned the case to his pocket and closed his eyes again. Was she asleep? Her breathing was deep and soft and regular, but—was she truly asleep? To ascertain which fact he needs must edge himself round, though with elaborate care not to disturb her. And surely no slumber ever looked more unconsciously natural!... Yet she lay in the one and only posture where the rising moon might show him the classic beauty of her profile, the low brow, the delicate nose, vivid lips tenderly apart, the softly rounded chin. Sir John scrutinised her, feature by feature, with such keen intensity that it seemed to trouble her dreams, for she sighed plaintively at last, stirred gracefully and finally, opening her eyes, sat up to smooth and pat her rebellious hair. “Have I been asleep, sir?” “’Tis what I’m wondering, Rose,” he answered, seating himself opposite to her. “Howbeit you did it charmingly well. And now, since we are both awake, let us converse of your grandmother——” “Pray when shall we reach Dieppe?” she demanded. “Some time ’twixt now and dawn, if all goes well. But tell me of your grandmother.” Instead of answering, she turned to stare out of the window, and became so intensely unconscious of him that Sir John yawned again, and subsided into lethargic silence. So they rumbled and jolted on their weary way until the grind of wheels and creak of the leathern springs grew unbearable. “Are ye asleep again?” she demanded at last. “Nay, m’ sweet creature,” he answered drowsily. “I ruminate upon thyself and myself and will make thee a prophecy, as thus: Within the week, Paris, aye, and London belike, will ring wi’ news of this my latest infamy; the modish world will have its ears tickled by scandalous tale of how the ‘Wicked Dering’ carried off to shameful purpose a poor, pretty, sweet and innocent serving-wench.” “But how—how should any one know?” she questioned a little breathlessly. “Alas, my Rose,” he sighed, “do I but sneeze the world hears on’t. I am dogged by a most unrelenting and scandal-mongering fate.” “What do you mean by fate?”