He rose as she drew nigh, and, doffing his hat, made shift to pass on.
"Sir Crispin," she called, detaining him.

He turned.
"Your servant, Mistress Cynthia." "Are you afraid of me, Sir Crispin ?" "Beauty, madam, is wont to inspire courage rather than fear," he answered, with a smile.
"That, sir, is an evasion, not an answer." "If read aright, Mistress Cynthia, it is also an answer." "That you do not fear me ?" "It is not a habit of mine." "Why, then, have you avoided me these three days past ?" Despite himself Crispin felt his breath quickening--quickening with a pleasure that he sought not to account for--at the thought that she should have marked his absence from her side.
"Because perhaps if I did not," he answered slowly, "you might come to avoid me.

I am a proud man, Mistress Cynthia." "Satan, sir, was proud, but his pride led him to perdition." "So indeed may mine," he answered readily, "since it leads me from you." "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.