It was a letter. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. Capital swordsman. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. \"Can I get your ticket?\" He asked her as she approached the vendor. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband.
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