They parted thus, and into the heart of Mistress Cynthia there
crept that night a doubt that banished sleep. Was she wise in
entrusting herself so utterly to a man of whom she knew but
little, and that learnt from rumours which had not been good?
But scarcely was it because of that that doubts assailed her.
Rather was it because of his cool deliberateness which argued
not the great love wherewith she fain would fancy him inspired.

For consolation she recalled a line that had it great fires
were soon burnt out, and she sought to reassure herself that
the flame of his love, if not all-consuming, would at least
burn bright and steadfastly until the end of life. And so she
fell asleep, betwixt hope and fear, yet no longer with any
hesitancy touching the morrow's course.

In the morning she took her woman into her confidence, and
scared her with it out of what little sense the creature owned.
Yet to such purpose did she talk, that when that evening, as
Crispin waited by the coach he had taken, in the hollow of the
road, he saw approaching him a portly, middle-aged dame with a
valise. This was Cynthia's woman, and Cynthia herself was not
long in following, muffled in a long, black cloak.

He greeted her warmly - affectionately almost yet with none of
the rapture to which she held herself entitled as some little
recompense for all that on his behalf she left behind.

Urbanely he handed her into the coach, and, after her, her
woman. Then seeing that he made shift to close the door: