No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. Nigel Ennison was he. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable.
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