"Not as a mourner, that I swear."
"I may decide to elope."
"Impossible! In my bally those that want a marriage license have to come to me."
"I've always had a leaning toward the nobility," remarked Evelyn, rather maliciously. "Are there no men of title in the camp?"
"A handful or so of younger sons," Scarlett informed her, "and a pathetic lot in the main they are. 'Remittance Men,' we call them, because they are on allowance to stay away from home, avowedly that in a new country they may turn over a new leaf, but in reality that their families may be spared the shame of witnessing their final disintegration. Be good to such when ye come across them, Miss Durant, for the sake of what they ought to be, but don't marry them, for the whole lot of them together wouldn't make one decent man."
Evelyn laughed, but her face crimsoned. "Dear, dear! And suppose, after all, you disapprove my choice?"
"Faith, I'll exercise my official prerogative and take ye in charge myself! Meanwhile, I must turn my attention toward yonder suspect." He indicated a person with the deportment of a personage, who, dressed in the height of fashion, was strolling, tourist-wise, kodak in hand, down the village street.
"Why, who can that be?" Evelyn leaned forward with interest.
"That's my own question. He travels under the name of the Count St. Hilaire."
"There's something very familiar about his appearance. I wonder if I mayn't have met him at Newport, or Washington. If so, bring him here that I may renew the acquaintance, Sergeant, please."