"No, miss. But if I say it as shouldn't, I can do most anything when I try. They'll teach me in Salisbury--free, gratis and for nothing, if I buy the 'bus." "I do hope you'll be careful, Mr. Yellam." Alfred was delighted at this mark of solicitude. For the moment nothing more was to be said. He searched his mind for another suitable topic of conversation. Already he had decided to ask Fancy to walk out with him, but he feared a rebuff. It was "up" to him to shew her his paces. Any premature love-making might be disastrous. Nevertheless, it behoved him to waste no time in making himself agreeable. Half-a-dozen likely young fellows would be fluttering about Fancy before the week was out. First come, first served. He essayed a fresh flight: "Coming through village, miss, I met a soldier--'No Account Harry' we used to call him. Back from the Indies, and spruced up wonderful." Fancy exhibited lively interest. "A soldier, Mr. Yellam! I do like soldiers, because--because----" Her voice melted on a silence; her cheeks shewed a deeper pink. "Do tell, miss. Why do you like--soldiers?" "You'll think me such a silly." "Not me. I'm no mumbudgetter. What you tell me I'll keep to myself." Her eyes dwelt steadily on his. In a lower voice, she asked: "Do you believe in fortune-telling, Mr. Yellam?" "I don't know as I do. But I don't know as I don't." "I do. And--maybe the Vicar wouldn't like this--I can tell fortunes myself with cards." "Well, I never!" "Yes. About three months ago, a lady came to Salisbury and lodged near us. She told fortunes with cards; she taught me. She didn't do it for money. Now, if you laugh, I'll never forgive you...." Alfred became portentously solemn. "The lady told me that I should marry a soldier." Alfred looked perturbed, but his shrewd sense sustained him. "Did she? Likely as not she'd seen you walking out with one." "I have never walked out with a soldier." Alfred looked unhappy. He thought of the well-set-up Highlander. He beheld Fancy hanging on his arm, gazing upward into a bronzed, devil-may-care face, listening to strange tales of the Orient. Jealousy ravaged him. His dejection deepened when he discovered that his tongue had lost the trick of speech. He yearned to speak lightly and facetiously about soldiers. But he could think of nothing better than this: "Soldiers are soldiers." Fancy read him easily. Her father distrusted soldiers, who loved and ran away. He had warned her against their beguilements. But Fancy had read English history, more intelligently than most girls of similar upbringing. She knew what soldiers had done for England. Also, she had eye for a bit of colour. Soldiers appealed to her imagination. She put sailors first, the jolly tars. Tommy came next, with his swagger cane, his jaunty walk, and his cap cocked on one side, shewing a "quiff" beneath. "Why do men, like you, Mr. Yellam, despise soldiers?"