“Now, certainly that is true,” the girl said, brightening.  “It was really his own carelessness, and his dear, lovable rashness.  And somebody could explain it to the Queen.  Besides, I often think that wars are good for the public spirit of a nation, and bring out its true manhood.  But then it upset me, too, a little, Ned, to hear about this Marlowe—­for I must tell you that I knew the poor man, very slightly.  So I happen to know that today he flung off in a rage, and began drinking, because somebody, almost by pure accident, had burned a packet of his verses—­”

Thereupon Captain Musgrave raised heavy eyebrows, and guffawed so heartily that the candle flickered.  “To think of the fellow’s putting it on that plea! when he could so easily have written some more verses.  That is the trouble with these poets, if you ask me:  they are not practical even in their ordinary, everyday lying.  No, no, the truth of it was that the rogue wanted a pretext for making a beast of himself, and seized the first that came to hand.  Egad, my dear, it is a daily practice with these poets.  They hardly draw a sober breath.  Everybody knows that.”

Cynthia was looking at him in the half-lit room with very flattering admiration....  Seen thus, with her scarlet lips a little parted—­disclosing pearls—­and with her naive dark eyes aglow, she was quite incredibly pretty and caressable.  She had almost forgotten until now that this stalwart soldier, too, was in love with her.  But now her spirits were rising venturously, and she knew that she liked Ned Musgrave.  He had sensible notions; he saw things as they really were, and with him there would never be any nonsense about top-lofty ideas.  Then, too, her dear old white-haired father would be pleased, because there was a very fair estate....

So Cynthia said:  “I believe you are right, Ned.  I often wonder how they can be so lacking in self-respect.  Oh, I am certain you must be right, for it is just what I felt without being able quite to express it You will stay for supper with us, of course.  Yes, but you must, because it is always a great comfort for me to talk with really sensible persons.  I do not wonder that you are not very eager to stay, though, for I am probably a fright, with my eyes red, and with my hair all tumbling down, like an old witch’s.  Well, let us see what can be done about it, sir!  There was a hand-mirror—­”

And thus speaking, she tripped, with very much the reputed grace of a fairy, toward the far end of the room, and standing a-tiptoe, groped at the obscure shelves, with a resultant crash of falling china.

“Oh, but my lovely cups!” said Cynthia, in dismay.  “I had forgotten they were up there:  and now I have smashed both of them, in looking for my mirror, sir, and trying to prettify myself for you.  And I had so fancied them, because they had not their like in England!”

She looked at the fragments, and then at Musgrave, with wide, innocent hurt eyes.  She was honestly grieved by the loss of her quaint toys.  But Musgrave, in his sturdy, common-sense way, only laughed at her seriousness over such kickshaws.