Ah! I am right. There, one moment,--a sprig of green, a single
leaf, would set off the pink nicely. Here he is known only as
"Sandy": you know the absurd habits of this camp. Of course he has
another name. There! (releasing the colonel) it is much prettier
now.
Col. Starbottle. Ged, madam! The rarest exotic--the Victoria
Regina--is not as--er--graceful--er--tribute!
Miss Mary. And yet you refuse to satisfy my curiosity?
Col. Starbottle (with great embarrassment, which at last resolves
itself into increased dignity of manner). What you ask is--er--er--
impossible! You are right: the--er--gentleman you allude to is
known to me under--er--er--another name. But honor--Miss Morris,
honor!--seals the lips of Col. Starbottle. (Aside.) If she should
know he was a menial! No. The position of the man you have
challenged, Star, must be equal to your own. (Aloud.) Anything,
Miss Morris, but--er--that!
Miss Mary (smiling). Be it so. Adios, Col. Starbottle.
Col. Starbottle (gallantly). Au revoir, Miss Morris. [Exit,
impressively, L.
Miss Mary. So! Sandy conceals another name, which he withholds
from Red Gulch. Well! Pshaw! What is that to me? The camp is
made up of refugees,--men who perhaps have good reason to hide a
name that may be infamous, the name that would publish a crime.
Nonsense! Crime and Sandy! No, shame and guilt do not hide
themselves in those honest but occasionally somewhat bloodshot
eyes.
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