If she could not marry him, she would not marry any one. The Bach Cantata was played fairly well, Sebastian thought, for a lot of children. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. Come now, I am very glad to see you again so soon, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is. “Will you help me?” he asked. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. I tell you—never mind the bill. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. You got to take the world as it is, and the only possible trade for a girl that isn’t sweated is to get hold of a man and make him do it for her.
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