"Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. “Well, I don’t want you to talk to him,” he said, very firmly. With me behaving as if everything was infinitely matter-of-fact, what could he do? And just then Heaven sent old Manningtree—I didn’t tell you before of the fortunate intervention of Manningtree, did I? He was looking quite infernally distinguished, with a wide crimson ribbon across him—what IS a wide crimson ribbon? Some sort of knight, I suppose.
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