“Aye, my reputation!” he repeated wearily. “’Faith, madam,’tis my incubus that hath me in a strangle-gripe. For years I have endured it with a fool’s content, but now when I would be rid on’t I may not. ’Tis a haunting shadow, a demon mocking my best endeavours. Evil is naturally expected of me, virtue—never. Indeed, you behold in me the poor victim of a relentless fate——” “Fate, sir?” cried a scornful voice, and my Lady Herminia stepped into the alcove. “Even so, madam!” he answered, rising to bow. “Heaven preserve us!” she exclaimed. “Do you dare put the onus of your own misdemeanours upon Fate?” “Nay, then,” he answered, “let us call it Fortune, madame, since Fortune is—feminine, and esteemed ever a fickle jade!” “So, sir, having contrived yourself an evil notoriety, you would turn cynic and rail upon Fate, it seems!” “Nay, madam, cursed by cruel Fortune, I am become a Man o’ Sentiment and find in simple things the great and good content: the carolling bird, the springing flower, the rippling brook, these have charms the which——” “Tush, sir, you grow lyrical, which becometh you most vilely.” “Fie, Herminia!” cried the Duchess. “Hold thy teasing tongue, miss. Sir John is right, indeed—I myself love to hear the carolling brook—I mean the rippling bird—— There, see how you ha’ fluttered me! Sit down, Herminia—do! And you, Sir John! Be seated—both o’ you, instead of standing to stare on each other like—like two fond fools foolishly fond! So! Now, surely, Sir John, a man’s reputation is his own, to make or mar?” “Nay, ’faith, your Grace, doth not a man’s reputation make or mar him, rather? And whence cometh reputation but of our friends and enemies who judge us accordingly. So the world knows us but as they report. Thus, he or she that would be held immaculate should consort solely with dogs or horses that ha’ not the curse of speech.” Here my lady sighed wearily and began to tap with impatient foot. “Herminia, hush!” exclaimed the Duchess. “Hush and flap not fidgeting foot, miss. How think you of Sir John’s argument?” “I think, aunt, that Sir John, according to Sir John, doth make of Sir John a creature so unjustly defamed that one might look to see Sir John sprout wings to waft good Sir John from this so wicked world. And pray, Sir John, may we ask to what we owe the unexpected honour of your presence here?” “Alas, madam,” he sighed, “to what but matrimony! I am here in the matter of marriage.” The Duchess gasped and strove to rise, but her niece’s compelling hand restrained her. “Pray, sir, whose marriage?” “My own, madam. You behold me ready to wed you how, when and where you will.” “Oh, then,” quavered the Duchess, “oh, pray, sir, ere you continue—I’ll begone.... Herminia, suffer me to rise——” “Nay, dear aunt, rather shall you suffer along with me——” “Loose me, love!” implored the Duchess. “Unhand me, Herminia; I will not remain.... I cannot—so awkward for Sir John ... for me! Oh, horrors, Herminia!”