Troopers Bear, Goate, and Little, halting not in their stride, glancing not unto the right hand nor unto the left hand, speaking no word, and giving no sign of surprise, marched on in perfect silence, until Trooper Bear observed to the world in general “The lady was _not_ swearing. His _name_ must be Dam—short for Damon or Pythias or Iphigenia or something which we may proceed to forget…. Poor old chappie—no wonder he’s taking to secret drinking. _I_ should drink, myself. _Poor_ chap!” and Trooper Goate, heaving a sympathetic sigh, murmured also “Poor chap!” But Trooper Little, once the Hon. Bertie Le Grand, thought “Poor _lady_!” The heart of Damocles de Warrenne bounded within him, stood still, and then seemed like to burst. “Oh, _Lucille_! Oh, darling!” he groaned, as he kissed her fiercely and then endeavoured to thrust her from him. “Jump into your carriage quickly. _Lucille_—Don’t … _Here_ …! Not _here_…. People are looking … _You …!_ A common soldier…. Let me go. Quick…. Your carriage…. Some one may—” “Let you _go_, darling …! Now I have found you…. If you say another word I’ll serve you as you served the Haddock. I’ll hang on to your arm right along the Leas. I’ll hang round your neck and scream if you try to run away. This is poetic justice, darling. Now you know how our Haddock felt. _No_—I _won’t_ leave go of your sleeve. Where shall we go, dearest darling Dammy. Dare you drive up and down the Front with me in Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man’s mother’s victoria? oh, my _darling_ Dam….” and Lucille burst into happy tears. “Go up that winding path and I’ll follow in a minute. There will be secluded seats.” “And you’ll bolt directly I leave go of you?… I—” “No, darling, God knows I should if I were a man, but I can’t, _I can’t_. Oh, Lucille!” “Stay here,” cried the utterly fearless, unashamed girl to the unspeakably astounded coachman of the mother of the minor Canon who had the felicity of being Amelia Harringport’s sister’s young man, and she strode up the pathway that wound, tree-shaded, along the front of the gently sloping cliff. In the utter privacy of a small seat-enclosing, bush-hidden half-cave, Damocles de Warrenne crushed Lucille to his breast as she again flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Lucille, how _could_ you expose yourself to scandal like that; I ought to be hung for not taking to my heels as you came, but I could not believe my eyes, I thought I was going mad again,” and he shivered.