And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. “Dear John,” she whispered. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. Get you gone. It has become a part of the order of my life. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. 1. Never mind. I don’t know.
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