“Yes, he walked all the way with me.  Before reaching Sundridge stile, I asked him to leave me.  That was another mistake, for it gave to our meeting a clandestine appearance.  He said my word was law to him, and that he would obey, though to do so, that is, to leave me, was pain, you understand.”

“Yes, I can understand that he did not want to leave you,” I answered.  But I saw that she had not finished, so I remained silent, and in a moment she continued:—­

“He had been so respectful to me throughout that I thought him a modest, well-behaved gentleman, and—­”

I laughed, interrupting her to explain:  “All art, Frances, all art.  You’ll find much of that manufactured modesty at court.  It is the trump card in the game of love and is but a cloak for brazenness.”

“Yes, I so found it,” she answered, drooping her head, “for when he was about to leave me at a secluded spot, he took my hand and would have kissed me without so much as ‘By your leave,’ had I not caught his intent before it was too late.  I drew away, inclined to be angry, and said, ‘Sir, one may overrun one’s course by going too fast.’”

“That truism, under like circumstances at court, would have made you famous,” I said, pleased alike with her naivete and her wisdom.

“I tried, with fair success, to appear offended,” she continued, blushing deeply, “but the awful truth certainly is that I was not.  I suppose it is true that women like boldness and do not find wickedness in men as distasteful as mothers say it is.”

“On the contrary,” I remarked, growing more and more delighted with her wisdom, innocence, and candor.

“Yes,” she continued, blushing exquisitely, “even since you have told me how wicked he is, I am not sure that I like him less, though I fear him and shall avoid him as I should a pestilence.”

“Ah, but will you, can you, Frances?” I asked.

“Indeed, yes, brother Ned, and if you doubt me, you don’t know me,” she returned.

“But do you know yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, now I do, thanks to your bravery,” she answered.

“But you saw him many times after his first bold attempt,” I suggested.

“Oh, it was easily forgiven,” she returned, naively.  “Yes, I have met him almost every day since then.  The days I did not see him seemed to be blanks in my life.  After his first boldness, he was always courteous.  He never again became familiar, but seemed to try only to convince me of his regard in most respectful terms, and—­and I listened all too willingly, but made no answer save what I could not conceal in my manner.  That, I fear, was answer all too plain.  But now you have opened my eyes, and I see clearly.  I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.”

“If you go to court, this affair will have been a good lesson,” I returned encouragingly.  “For there you must learn to despise the proffered love of men, whether it be pretended or real, until one comes who is worthy of you in person, wealth, and station.”