"To wit," said she, with a glass of wine half-way to her lips.
"That the right person saves them from frizzling to a cinder."
She sipped her wine steadily, and then, leaning forward till the radiance of her yellow hair made me quiver, she whispered calmly, "Oliver, you're a brute."
"Nay, madam," said I, "only a yokel."
She looked at me again as she had looked at me when I had kissed her hand beneath the hawthorns.
"Hello, there," broke in the Colonel, addressing himself to me, "who was right about the dog's life?"
"I was, of course," said Margaret promptly.
The host was rung for, his supper praised to his heart's content, the table cleared, and a dish of tea ordered for Margaret. Bethinking me of the sergeant's tuck, which might be useful, I asked the host to bring it up, and he did so.
When we were again left to ourselves, the Colonel took the sword, and examined it with his skilful eyes and practised hands.
"Somewhat heavy," said he, "but well balanced and well made, and of the truest steel. Are you a swordsman, Master Wheatman?"