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in the duke’s house, would see a great deal of him. Still, Neal had referred to her as a child—and at what age did childhood end?
    At this point, Miss Choice-Pickerell’s diligent footman dared to interrupt, with a diffident observation that Miss Choice-Pickerell was about to walk head-on into a military parade. “I’ll brook no interference!” announced the young lady, in a tone so grim that her footman cringed.
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Miss Cressida Choice-Pickerell was not the only lady of note to stroll about the streets of Brighton that fine morn; although Miss Sibyl Baskerville would be the first to admit that she was no longer in her first youth, and certainly that she was far from fashionable, her passage occasioned a great deal more comment. With a plain cloth redingote worn over an unadorned muslin gown, and on her chestnut curls a bonnet so dowdy as to make her appear an impecunious governess, Binnie might justifiably have been expected to pass unnoticed. However, she did not. Miss Baskerville was no less a sight of Brighton than was the legendary Green Man—a Mr. Cope whose affectation it was to dress entirely in green, who ate nothing but green fruits and vegetables, whose rooms were painted and furnished in that color, whose gig and livery and portmanteau, gloves and whip were all green. And as did Mr. Cope, Binnie walked daily on the Steine.
    Nor did her reputation suffer from this enterprise; there was not a soul in Brighton—with the possible exception of Miss Choice-Pickerell, with whom she did not stand on good terms—who would dare speak a censorious word against Miss Baskerville. It was not wholly due to the influence of her cousin the duke that this was so; in her own right, Binnie enjoyed a great popularity. She was without pretension; she was both quick-witted and kind; and if she was eccentric, which not even her dearest friends could deny, eccentricity was to be tolerated in a lady of lineage so impeccable. Too, though the duke might not especially like his cousin, she was under his protection; and the duke was not a man to overlook a slight. Consequently, Miss Baskerville enjoyed the privilege, denied to ladies of far more exalted position than she, of going and behaving exactly as she pleased.
    She did not do so unescorted; Binnie was not of the temperament that out of sheer wrong-headedness flaunted the proprieties. It was not that Binnie deliberately adhered to les convenances, but merely that she was innately well-bred—except, that is, in regard to her cousin the duke, in whose presence she invariably conducted herself like a fishwife. She said as much, to the gentleman whose privilege it was to accompany her on this leisurely promenade.
    “It makes me,” she admitted, “very much disgusted with myself. Sandor has some justification in claiming I flaunt my presence on the stage like some vulgar character from a comedy. Although he is scarcely qualified to throw stones at me, for Sandor might serve as an object lesson in triumphant depravity. Oh, curse the man! Let us talk of something else. This discussion of Sandor’s virtue—or the lack thereof!—is far too great a bore.”
    Miss Baskerville’s companion acceded, gratefully. It was he who had introduced the subject, thinking to perhaps ease the strained relationship between his beloved and his friend—for he was Miss Baskerville’s very ardent admirer, and the Duke of Knowles’s friend; and on one side was frequently regaled with ironic observations regarding the Monster of Depravity, and on the other with vituperative comments about Miss Prunes and Prisms. Quite frequently he felt as if he were caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.
    Of his less than comfortable position, Binnie was aware. “Poor Mark!” She smiled up at him. “All this fuss and botheration has put me out of sorts, and it is very noble of you to take up the cudgels on Sandor’s behalf. I suppose it is no wonder he has so high an opinion of