“Heaven has given me keener perception, your ladyship. I have seen his lordship.”      

       “Ah, may I inquire whether he was particularly rough with you this afternoon?”      

       “I trust I am too chivalrous to answer that question.”      

       “You are quite dry.”      

       “Thank you. I deserve the rebuke, all right.”      

       “Oh, I mean you haven't been in the river.     

       “Not since morning. Am I walking too fast for you?”      

       “Not at all. One could n't ask to be put off more considerately.”      

       “By Jove,” he said involuntarily, his admiration getting the better of him.     

       “I beg your pardon,” with slightly elevated eyebrows.     

       “Do you know, you 're not at all what I imagined you'd be.”      

       “Oh? And I fancy I'm not at all whom you imagined me to be.”      

       “Heavens! Am I ejecting an innocent bystander? You are Lady Bazelhurst?”      

       “I am Penelope Drake. But”—she added quickly—“I am an enemy. I am Lord Bazelhurst's sister.”      

       “You—you don't mean it?”      

       “Are you disappointed? I'm sorry.”      

       “I am staggered and—a bit skeptical. There is no resemblance.”      

       “I am a bit taller,” she admitted carefully. “It is n't dreadfully immodest, is it, for one to hold converse with her captor? I am in your power, you see.”      

       “On the contrary, it is quite the thing. The heroine always converses with the villain in books. She tells him what she thinks of him.”      

       “But this is n't a book and I'm not a 

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