She saw how interested he was, saw how he almost smirked.  “Aha, so you think it not quite bad, eh, the conclusion of my ’Hero and Leander’?”

“It is your best.  And your middlemost, my poet, is better than aught else in English,” she said, politely, and knowing how much he delighted to hear such remarks.

“Come, I retract my charge of foolishness, for you are plainly a wench of rare discrimination.  And yet you say I do not love you!  Cynthia, you are beautiful, you are perfect in all things.  You are that heavenly Helen of whom I wrote, some persons say, acceptably enough—­How strange it was I did not know that Helen was dark-haired and pale! for certainly yours is that immortal loveliness which must be served by poets in life and death.”

“And I wonder how much of these ardours,” she thought, “is kindled by my praise of his verses?” She bit her lip, and she regarded him with a hint of sadness.  She said, aloud:  “But I did not, after all, speak to Lord Pevensey concerning the printing of your poem.  Instead, I burned your ’Hero and Leander’.”

She saw him jump, as under a whip-lash.  Then he smiled again, in that wry fashion of his.  “I lament the loss to letters, for it was my only copy.  But you knew that.”

“Yes, Kit, I knew it was your only copy.”

“Oho! and for what reason did you burn it, may one ask?”

“I thought you loved it more than you loved me.  It was my rival, I thought—­” The girl was conscious of remorse, and yet it was remorse commingled with a mounting joy.

“And so you thought a jingle scribbled upon a bit of paper could be your rival with me!”

Then Cynthia no longer doubted, but gave a joyous little sobbing laugh, for the love of her disreputable dear poet was sustaining the stringent testing she had devised.  She touched his freckled hand caressingly, and her face was as no man had ever seen it, and her voice, too, caressed him.

“Ah, you have made me the happiest of women, Kit!  Kit, I am almost disappointed in you, though, that you do not grieve more for the loss of that beautiful poem.”

His smiling did not waver; yet the lean, red-haired man stayed motionless.  “Do I appear perturbed?” he said.  “Why, but see how lightly I take the destruction of my life-work in this, my masterpiece!  For I can assure you it was a masterpiece, the fruit of two years’ toil and of much loving repolishment—­”

“Ah, but you love me better than such matters, do you not?” she asked him, tenderly.  “Kit Marlowe, I adore you!  Sweetheart, do you not understand that a woman wants to be loved utterly and entirely?  She wants no rivals, not even paper rivals.  And so often when you talked of poetry I have felt lonely and chilled and far away from you, and I have been half envious, dear, of your Heros and your Helens, and your other good-for-nothing Greek minxes.  But now I do not mind them at all.  And I will make amends, quite prodigal amends, for my naughty jealousy; and my poet shall write me some more lovely poems, so he shall—­”