Mr. Scarsdale took out his snuff-box, stared at it, tapped it, fumbled with it and bowed. “My dear Sir John,” said he, “if I had the curst misfortune to ... ah ... to cross you in the matter of ... an ... Yon rustic Venus ... poach on your preserves, ’twas done all unwitting and I apologise.... A delicious creature; I felicitate you.” “Mr. Scarsdale,” answered Sir John, “I accept your explanation. At the same time, I take leave to point you to the fact that this inn is small and I detest being crowded. May I then venture to suggest that you and your friend seek accommodation—elsewhere?” “How, sir—how, Sir John?” stammered Mr. Scarsdale, running nervous hand over wigless, close-cropped head. “You ... you ask us to—to——” “Favour me with your absence, sir.” For a moment Mr. Scarsdale stood mute; his face grew suddenly red and as swiftly pale, his eyes glared, his large teeth gleamed evilly, but noting Sir John’s resolute air, his piercing gaze, the serene assurance of his pose, Mr. Scarsdale commanded himself sufficiently to bow with a flourish. “Tom,” quoth he to his silent companion, “ha’ the goodness to pick up my wig.” Receiving which indispensable article, he clapped it on somewhat at random and, hurrying from the room with the silent Tom at his heels, was presently heard calling for horses and chaise and damning all and sundry louder than ever until, with a stamp of hoofs and rattle of wheels, he was borne damning on his way. Sir John was in the act of sheathing his sword, when he turned at sound of a light footstep. “Ah, Rose,” sighed he, gazing into her troubled eyes, “yonder go two of your ‘grand gentlemen’—Paris teems with such! Better surely an honest English lover in homespun than be hunted by Brutality in lace and velvet. Did they fright thee, child ... and despite thy prayers and little cross?” Here she hid her face in her hands. “Nay, Rose, if they reverence not thy virgin purity how should they revere aught else! And Paris reeks of such as they ... to hunt thy fresh young beauty! And thou ... in thy pretty innocence—alas! Wilt thou to Paris, child?” “Your honour knows my lady is determined on’t” “Then be you determined also. You have a chin—let me look at it.” Unwillingly she raised her head, eyes abased yet very conscious of his scrutiny. “Pray what o’ my chin, sir?” she questioned. “Firmly round and with a dimple in’t!” he answered. “’Tis a chin speaks thee resolute to choose and act for thyself. So—if your lady will to Paris let her go without you, child.” “Without me?” she repeated, innocent eyes upraised to his. “O sir, do you mean me to bide here—with your honour?” At this direct question Sir John was silent a moment, and, meeting the intensity of her gaze, felt his cheeks burn unwontedly. “Could you trust yourself to—my honour, child?” For a long moment she made no reply, and Sir John marvelled to find himself awaiting her answer with a feeling akin to anxiety. “Well, child?” he demanded at length.