"Yes? Please don't hesitate."
"You are mocking me."
"Not at all, Don Quixote. Only why shy at the windmill?"
He surveyed her carefully with his head cocked to one side. "I believe you have a sense of humor," he said.
"The daughter of an earl humorous?" She laughed gaily, and her beauty was exceedingly good to look upon.
An uncomfortable feeling crept into the mind of Lawrence Craighouse, officer and satirist, that, though armed with the broadsword of masculine self-assurance, he was being beaten by the stiletto of feminism. His embarrassment, however, was broken by the approach of a servant.
"Pardon me," said Lady Dorothy. "It's the mail."
She took from the salver a letter, which bore the stamp of the Red Cross, and opened it.
"I am so glad," she said, looking up at him; "I have been accepted for France."
"As what?"