“Rose,” said he, as they sat side by side, “it seems that some time to-morrow we shall have reached our journey’s end and must say good-bye. Shall you miss me, child ... grieve a little?” For a moment she was silent, and when she answered her tone was primly demure. “Oh yes, sir, and indeed I shall, for your honour’s been mortal kind, I’m sure!” “Ha’ done with your play-acting, girl!” said he so sharply that she started and would have risen, but his grip on her arm restrained her. “Play-acting?” she repeated in altered voice. “How, sir? D’ye think——” “’Tis no matter, child,” he answered lightly; “my thoughts are my own. But for a little space I would have you your best, most worthy self. To-morrow we part and may meet again but rarely ... if ever. Shall you bear in your mind a kindly memory of me, Rose?” “Yes,” she answered gravely. “When you shall hear wild tales of the ‘Wicked Dering,’ will you think of him as ... as he is now ... a man perchance a little better than he is painted?” “Yes,” she answered again, conscious of his dejected attitude though she saw his face but a pale blur in the gloom. “And will your honour be returning to Paris?” “No, child.” “To London?” “Nor London. I intend to live in the country for awhile.” “Then why can’t your honour see me now an’ then?” Here she was aware that he had lifted his head and turned to peer at her. “I shall be very ... busy,” he answered, with a strange pause between the two words. “And will your honour have time to miss me?” “Heaven knows it, child!” he answered, leaning nearer. “And shall you be—always busy, sir?” she questioned softly, swaying towards him until, despite the darkness, he could behold all the witchery of her look. “Shall you think of me sometimes?” “Often, Rose ... as the most wonderful ... of—serving-maids!” he answered, turning suddenly away. “How wonderful?” she demanded. “Vastly wonderful, child.” “What d’you mean by wonderful?” “Just—wonderful; you fill me with wonder.” “What of, pray?” “Yourself.” “Why?” “Heavens, child! Just because you are a woman and possess a mind feminine, which is the wonder of wonders since ’tis beyond the understanding of man or woman. As saith the song: ‘The mind of a woman can never be known, You never can tell it aright. Shall I tell you the reason?—She knows not her own, It changes so often ere night. ’Twould puzzle Apollo Her whimsies to follow, His oracle would be a jest. At first she’ll prove kind, Then quickly you’ll find She’ll change like the wind, And often abuses The man that she chooses; And what she refuses, Loves best!’ And there y’have it, child!” “Oh, indeed, sir! But when a woman makes up her mind to hate she can be fiercely determined as any man——” “Aye—until she remembers she’s a woman!” “And what then, sir?”