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Pickett where he waited by the front door. He was attired in a coat of brilliant crimson with lace at the throat and cuffs; it confirmed Mrs. Corvey’s tentative identification of him as the water-walking yachtsman she had seen. Though the rest of his clothing was fairly sober, it could not offset the effect of the coat, which made Mr. Pickett look rather like a pantomime highwayman. He strode forward, seized Lady Beatrice’s hand, and kissed it resoundingly.
    “Your chariot awaits, Miss Beatrice,” said Mr. Pickett. “Your servant, Mrs. Corvey, ma’am. Let us take the salubrious air.”
    He led them out to what was in fact an open barouche, drawn by four fine bays. He had evidently come alone, acting as his own driver. Mrs. Corvey was deposited within the carriage; Lady Beatrice was handed up to the driver’s seat, into which Mr. Pickett vaulted a moment later. They set off, taking the beach road south.
    They drove first to Tor Abbey, admiring what could be seen of its stately ruins while Mr. Pickett discoursed at length and with admiration on Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.
    “It takes a good strong-willed Englishman to stand up to the Pope,” announced Mr. Pickett.
    He further pointed out the antique barn in which Sir Francis Drake had imprisoned a quantity of Spaniards following the Armada. Thereafter he spoke for some time on the subject of Britain’s naval glory, with Lady Beatrice managing to interject the occasional “Quite” or “Really?” all the way to the unbearably quaint village of Cockington. At the sight of its thatched roofs and mellow brick there were positive tears in Mr. Pickett’s eyes, and he spoke for a quarter-hour straight on the rural charms of Devon.
    “In just such a village,” he cried, “the great Sir Francis Drake would have been born. There’s a hero for you! Circumnavigated the globe, and brought honor and glory to his native land. They don’t breed ’em like that nowadays.”
    “He is a particular hero of yours, then, “ said Lady Beatrice.
    “Oh, indeed, Miss Beatrice, ma’am! And, if you will excuse the opinion of a poor Colonial returned to the fold, I do think it’s a sin and a shame our present Queen hasn’t men like that running her Navy.”
    “How true,” remarked Lady Beatrice, with a glance back at Mrs. Corvey.
    Mr. Pickett continued loud in his praises of Drake, all the way through Paignton, Broadsands, Churston Ferrers and was still going when they reached Brixham. It became obvious he had read a great deal on the subject of Drake, as well as Hawkins, Raleigh, and other gentlemen mariners and privateers. At least he had abandoned his “English” accent.
    As they idled along the green cliff tops above St. Mary’s Bay, Lady Beatrice seized upon the opportunity afforded by Mr. Pickett pausing to draw breath and said: “Are not you yourself a mariner, Mr. Pickett? Some of our fellow lodgers have spoken with admiration of your yacht.”
    Mr. Pickett blushed a bit but looked pleased. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but the old Sceptre is a mighty fine boat. I may have won one or two prizes with her; they’re back at the house. The place I’m staying, I mean.” He waved a hand at the open expanse of bluffs, that were empty save for three tiny cottages huddled together. “Look there, Miss Beatrice; wouldn’t that make a fine spot for an elegant residence? You can’t beat the view, can you?”
    “It is certainly impressive,” said Lady Beatrice.
    Mr. Pickett reined in the horses and the barouche came to a gentle halt. Sitting there above what genuinely was a spectacular view of the Bay, Mr. Pickett edged a little closer to Lady Beatrice and resumed his elucidation upon the glories of English military victories of the 16 th century, presenting them to Lady Beatrice under the evident impression that she had never heard of these things and would be edified to learn of them. Lady Beatrice, who had grown up in a soldier’s household,