The excess of chivalry with which this was uttered did something to compose poor Cynthia; though why such flummery should have imposed upon her I cannot tell. Even a parcel of lies, if it is made up into the semblance of a delicate attention, can do a great work with that sex, apparently. Anyhow, Cynthia sufficiently overcame her trepidation to find the courage to ask: "Are you Sir Thomas Wheatley, sir?" "You can call me that, madam," says Mr. Fielding. "Then do you know anything of my--my husband?" says Cynthia. "Your husband, madam," says he. "I did not know that you had a husband. Since when have you had a husband, madam?" At this point Cynthia blushed divinely. All her proverbial pertness was fled. The situation was too great for the foibles she had acquired. She stood forth in her strange predicament just a simple rustic maid, who longed to express her misery in tears, but was too proud to do so. Thus, with an ingenuousness that I had never observed in her before, she faltered: "Since--since this morning, sir." "Since this morning, madam," says Fielding, "and you have lost him already. Is it credible? He did not leave you at the church door, I hope." "He did not leave me at all, sir," says Cynthia. "Then if he did not leave you at all, madam, why is he not with you now?" says Mr. Fielding. Little by little, with numberless hesitations and small attempts at concealment on her part, and many sly quips and verbal quibbles on his own, the roguish fellow drew out of her a fair account of the state of the case. Cynthia's anxiety to conceal her husband's name and how he came to be placed in such an unhappy pass, afforded Mr. Fielding a great deal of pleasure. He was continually springing awkward questions upon her with a wonderful appearance of judicial innocence; and to observe the unfortunate chit wriggle and contort herself out of many an awkward corner was as good as a play. It was a cruel sport, perhaps, and I half thought it so at the time; but I am sure Fielding did not hold it to be such, for I do not think it was in him wittingly to give pain to anyone. This whimsical by-play was really directed against me, for when he had got her into a more than usually tight corner he would look at me, as I frowned at him from my hiding-place, with a face that dared me to intervene. "I am afraid, madam," says Fielding, "you are not dealing with me quite fairly. I must really assure you that this repeated and noticeable concealment--I can use no less explicit term--of your husband's name is most embarrassing. With the best will in the world to serve your interests, and to aid you to the extent of my poor ability, how can I give you any information about your husband if you will not take me far enough into your confidence to vouchsafe me his name? Even though I am a justice of the peace, I do not pretend to any supernatural knowledge. I am no mystery-reader, nor a worker of miracles."