“I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. "Gone," replied the wounded man. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation.
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