THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
Twenty guineas at the very least. If I wait upon madame at night, a dozen links. Be off with you!”
Cornbury shook his head hopelessly.
“Ye’re going to your funeral in style,” he said.
Mistress Barbara sat alone, looking out upon the quiet street. While she looked she saw nothing, and every line of her figure, in abandonment to her mood, spoke of sorrow and distraction. Her eyelids were red, and the richly laced mouchoir which fell from the hand beneath her chin was moist with tears. Upon a tray were the dishes of a luncheon, untouched, and a number of papers, some of them torn, fell from her hand upon the floor. A dish of roses, a few French romances, a manteau girdle, a copy of the Annus Mirabilis of Dryden, a pair of scented gloves of Martial, and a cittern in the corner completed the gently bred disorder of the room.
True, Sir Henry Heywood was no blood relation of hers, and had only been her guardian.
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