At that she turned upon him with a pout. “But it is concerning yourself that I would have you talk. It is not nice to disobey a lady. Besides, I have little interest in Master Stewart.” “To have little interest in a future husband augurs ill for the time when he shall come to be your husband.” “I thought that you, at least, understood me. Kenneth will never be husband of mine, Sir Crispin.” “Cynthia!” he exclaimed. “Oh, lackaday! Am I to wed a doll?” she demanded. “Is he--is he a man a maid may love, Sir Crispin?” “Indeed, had you but seen the half of life that I have seen,” said he unthinkingly, “it might amaze you what manner of man a maid may love--or at least may marry. Come, Cynthia, what fault do you find with him?” “Why, every fault.” He laughed in unbelief. “And whom are we to blame for all these faults that have turned you so against him?” “Whom?” “Yourself, Cynthia. You use him ill, child. If his behaviour has been extravagant, you are to blame. You are severe with him, and he, in his rash endeavours to present himself in a guise that shall render him commendable in your eyes, has overstepped discretion.” “Has my father bidden you to tell me this?” “Since when have I enjoyed your father's confidence to that degree? No, no, Cynthia. I plead the boy's cause to you because--I know not because of what.” “It is ill to plead without knowing why. Let us forget the valiant Kenneth. They tell me, Sir Crispin”--and she turned her glorious eyes upon him in a manner that must have witched a statue into answering her--“that in the Royal army you were known as the Tavern Knight.” “They tell you truly. What of that?” “Well, what of it? Do you blush at the very thought?” “I blush?” He blinked, and his eyes were full of humour as they met her grave--almost sorrowing glance. Then a full-hearted peal of laughter broke from him, and scared a flight of gulls from the rocks of Sheringham Hithe below. “Oh, Cynthia! You'll kill me!” he gasped. “Picture to yourself this Crispin Galliard blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl beset by her first lover. Picture it, I say! As well and as easily might you picture old Lucifer warbling a litany for the edification of a Nonconformist parson.” Her eyes were severe in their reproach. “It is always so with you. You laugh and jest and make a mock of everything. Such I doubt not has been your way from the commencement, and 'tis thus that you are come to this condition.” Again he laughed, but this time it was in bitterness. “Nay, sweet mistress, you are wrong--you are very wrong; it was not always thus. Time was--” He paused. “Bah! 'Tis the coward cries “time was”! Leave me the past, Cynthia. It is dead, and of the dead we should speak no ill,” he jested.