The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Her mind left her. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. ” He beamed upon her. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said.
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