Barbara smiled. She was anxious to please her aunt, and showed no desire to interfere with Lady Bolsover's schemes. It was such a relief to be free from the Abbey that Barbara experienced a reaction, and was inclined to enjoy herself. There were many things she would willingly forget. The brown mask had been reduced to ashes, but its destruction had not altered her opinion, nor had Martin succeeded in convincing her that she had not been grossly deceived. She had been threatened by Lord Rosmore, she had been insulted by her uncle and the men and women who were his companions, but, worst of all, she had been deceived by the man who had for so long occupied her thoughts and whom she had trusted. The opportunity to forget her troubles in a round of pleasure was soon forthcoming. At a sign a dozen men were ready to throw themselves at her feet, and a score more were only restrained by the apparent hopelessness of their case. She was a queen and her courtiers were many; music and laughter were the atmosphere about her; her slightest wish immediately became a command, and she became the standard by which others were judged. Barbara was young and enjoyed it, as any young girl would. There were moments when her laughter and merry voice had no trace of trouble in them, when it would have been difficult to believe that a cloud had ever hung in her life; but there were other times when her eyes looked beyond the gay crowd by which she was surrounded, when her attention could not be fixed, and when her face had sadness in it. She was conscious of sorrow and tears under all the music and laughter. Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some young soldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called to London and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a wit said, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left in Somersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only half the stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into a hell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became a rebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask in the ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be no reason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone West to give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? The question set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosby was in those thoughts all through a wakeful night. Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not she did not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbara was glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She was surrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure her attention. He evidently considered himself in disgrace still, although Barbara had forgiven him, and had ceased to associate him with the evil which was at Aylingford Abbey.