“Nay, sir,” she laughed, “you go from me willingly enough.” “Not willingly, Cynthia. Oh, not willingly,” he began. Then of a sudden he checked his tongue, and asked himself what he was saying. With a half-laugh and a courtier manner, he continued, “Of two evils, madam, we must choose the lesser one.” “Madam,” she echoed, disregarding all else that he had said. “It is an ugly word, and but a moment back you called me Cynthia.” “Twas a liberty that methought my grey hairs warranted, and for which you should have reproved me.” “You have not grey hairs enough to warrant it, Sir Crispin,” she answered archly. “But what if even so I account it no liberty?” The heavy lids were lifted from her eyes, and as their glance, frank and kindly, met his, he trembled. Then, with a polite smile, he bowed. “I thank you for the honour.” For a moment she looked at him in a puzzled way, then moved past him, and as he stood, stiffly erect, watching her graceful figure, he thought that she was about to leave him, and was glad of it. But ere she had taken half a dozen steps: “Sir Crispin,” said she, looking back at him over her shoulder, “I am walking to the cliffs.” Never was a man more plainly invited to become an escort; but he ignored it. A sad smile crept into his harsh face. “I shall tell Kenneth if I see him,” said he. At that she frowned. “But I do not want him,” she protested. “Sooner would I go alone.” “Why, then, madam, I'll tell nobody.” Was ever man so dull? she asked herself. “There is a fine view from the cliffs,” said she. “I have always thought so,” he agreed. She inclined to call him a fool; yet she restrained herself. She had an impulse to go her way without him; but, then, she desired his company, and Cynthia was unused to having her desires frustrated. So finding him impervious to suggestion: “Will you not come with me?” she asked at last, point-blank. “Why, yes, if you wish it,” he answered without alacrity. “You may remain, sir.” Her offended tone aroused him now to the understanding that he was impolite. Contrite he stood beside her in a moment. “With your permission, mistress, I will go with you. I am a dull fellow, and to-day I know not what mood is on me. So sorry a one that I feared I should be poor company. Still, if you'll endure me, I'll do my best to prove entertaining.” “By no means,” she answered coldly. “I seek not the company of dull fellows.” And she was gone. He stood where she had left him, and breathed a most ungallant prayer of thanks. Next he laughed softly to himself, a laugh that was woeful with bitterness. “Fore George!” he muttered, “it is all that was wanting!”