chanted Garden," she said,
"and those were surely ogerish days when men were flayed alive for
hunting the King's deer."

It is not to be wondered at if they dawdled somewhat by the way, when
that way led past Offa's Dyke, through Chepstow, and Tintern, and
Monmouth, and Symon's Yat. Indeed, Cynthia's moods alternated between
wide-eyed enjoyment and sheer regret, for each romantic ruin and
charming countryside not only aroused her enthusiasm but evoked a
longing to remain riveted to the spot. Yet she would not be a woman
if there were not exceptions to this rule, as shall be seen in due
course.

Mrs. Devar, perchance tempted by the word "Castle," quitted the car at
Chepstow, and climbed to the nail-studded oak door of one of the most
perfect examples of a Norman stronghold now extant. Once committed to
the role of sightseer, she was compelled to adhere to it, and before
the fourth court was reached, had she known the story, she would have
sympathized with the pilgrim who did _not_ boil the peas in his shoes
of penance. Chepstow Castle is a splendid ruin, but its steep
gradients and rough pavements are not fitted for stout ladies who wear
tight boots.

To make matters worse, the feelings of Cynthia's chaperon soon became
as sore as her toes. The only feature of Marten's Tower that appealed
to her was its diabolical ingenuity in providing opportunities for
that interfering chauffeur to assist, almost to lift, Cynthia from one
mass of fallen masonry to another. Though she knew nothing of Henry
Marten she reviled his memory. She heard "Fitzroy" telling her wayward
charge that the reformer really hated Charles I. because the King
called him "an ugly rascal" in public, and directed that he should be
turned out of Hyde Park; the words supplied a cue.

"Pity kings are not as powerful nowadays," she snapped. "The
presumption of the lower orders is becoming intolerable."

"Unfortunately, Marten retaliated by signing the King's death
warrant," said Medenham.

"Of course. What else could one expect from a person of his class?"

"But Sir Henry Marten was a celebrated judge, and the son of a
baronet, and he married a rich widow--these are not the prevalent
democratic vices," persisted Medenham.

"You must have sat up half the night reading the guidebook," she cried
in vexation at her blunder.

Cynthia laughed so cheerfully that Mrs. Devar thought she had scored.
Medenham left it at that, and was content. Both he and Cynthi