‘What sort of clothes will you be wanting?’ said she. ‘The clothes of a gentleman,’ said I. ‘Right or wrong, I think it is the part I am best qualified to play. Mr. St. Ives (for that’s to be my name upon the journey) I conceive as rather a theatrical figure, and his make-up should be to match.’ ‘And yet there is a difficulty,’ said she. ‘If you got coarse clothes the fit would hardly matter. But the clothes of a fine gentleman—O, it is absolutely necessary that these should fit! And above all, with your’—she paused a moment—‘to our ideas somewhat noticeable manners.’ ‘Alas for my poor manners!’ said I. ‘But my dear friend Flora, these little noticeabilities are just what mankind has to suffer under. Yourself, you see, you’re very noticeable even when you come in a crowd to visit poor prisoners in the Castle.’ I was afraid I should frighten my good angel visitant away, and without the smallest breath of pause went on to add a few directions as to stuffs and colours. She opened big eyes upon me. ‘O, Mr. St. Ives!’ she cried—‘if that is to be your name—I do not say they would not be becoming; but for a journey, do you think they would be wise? I am afraid’—she gave a pretty break of laughter—‘I am afraid they would be daft-like!’ ‘Well, and am I not daft?’ I asked her. ‘I do begin to think you are,’ said she. ‘There it is, then!’ said I. ‘I have been long enough a figure of fun. Can you not feel with me that perhaps the bitterest thing in this captivity has been the clothes? Make me a captive—bind me with chains if you like—but let me be still myself. You do not know what it is to be a walking travesty—among foes,’ I added bitterly. ‘O, but you are too unjust!’ she cried. ‘You speak as though any one ever dreamed of laughing at you. But no one did. We were all pained to the heart. Even my aunt—though sometimes I do think she was not quite in good taste—you should have seen her and heard her at home! She took so much interest. Every patch in your clothes made us sorry; it should have been a sister’s work.’ ‘That is what I never had—a sister,’ said I. ‘But since you say that I did not make you laugh—’ ‘O, Mr. St. Ives! never!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not for one moment. It was all too sad. To see a gentleman—’ ‘In the clothes of a harlequin, and begging?’ I suggested. ‘To see a gentleman in distress, and nobly supporting it,’ she said. ‘And do you not understand, my fair foe,’ said I, ‘that even if all were as you say—even if you had thought my travesty were becoming—I should be only the more anxious, for my sake, for my country’s sake, and for the sake of your kindness, that you should see him whom you have helped as God meant him to be seen? that you should have something to remember him by at least more characteristic than a misfitting sulphur-yellow suit, and half a week’s beard?’ ‘You think a great deal too much of clothes,’ she said. ‘I am not that kind of girl.’