disturb her--and she smiled to think how often she was disturbed in
these days. Judge Marriott had only to catch sight of her, and he would
leave any companion--man or woman--to hurry after her. At first he
seemed only intent on proving to her that he had not really been afraid
of the highwayman on Burford Heath, not on his own account at least,
only on hers; but presently he began to praise her, stammering over
high-flown compliments concerning her eyes or her hair, and looking
ridiculously distressed as he uttered them. He made her laugh until she
understood that he was making love to her, then she was angry. All
yesterday he was sighing to be forgiven.

Then there was Sir Philip Branksome, who twice within the last three
days had endeavoured to impress upon her the fact that his attentions
were a very great honour. He was so sure of himself in this particular
that it was almost impossible to despise him. There was Sydney Fellowes,
too, near kinsman to my Lord Halifax, full of boyish enthusiasm, now for
some warrior, now for some poet, chiefly for Mr. Herrick, whose poems he
knew by heart and repeated sympathetically. In Barbara Lanison he
professed to find the ideal woman, the inspiration which, he declared,
warrior and poet alike must have; and for hours together he would
explain how debased he was, how exalted was she. He wrote verses to her,
breathing these sentiments, and appeared to touch the height of his
ambition for a moment when she deigned to listen to them. Barbara felt
herself so much older than he was that she only stopped him when he grew
too persistent, neither laughing at him nor despising him. She praised
his verses which really had merit, but she would not understand that she
had inspired them. And last evening Lord Rosmore had arrived, had bowed
low over her hand and whispered a compliment. His looks, his attitude,
had occasioned comment, for my Lord Rosmore seldom sought, he was so
consistently sought after. Had not King Charles once called him the