The girl smiled wearily:
“Really,” she said, “you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters of this colour. I think that’s the reason you have defeated us—the trained fencer dreads a left-handed novice more than any classic master of the foils. 235
“And that is what you have done to us—blundered—if you’ll forgive me—into momentary victory.
“But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believe it. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masks and plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a grave and serious affair that must inevitably end in tragedy—for somebody.”
“For me?” he asked without smiling.
She turned on him abruptly and laid one hand lightly on his arm with a pretty gesture, at once warning, appealing, and protective.
“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because—because I want you to escape the tragedy.”
“You want me to escape?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”