All the time I was beating my brains for any means by which I should be able to get a word apart with Flora, or find the time to write her a billet.

The windows had been open while I breakfasted, I suppose to ventilate the room from any traces of my passage there; and, Master Ronald appearing on the front lawn, my ogre leaned forth to address him.
'Ronald,' she said, 'wasn't that Sim that went by the wall ?' I snatched my advantage.

Right at her back there was pen, ink, and paper laid out.

I wrote: 'I love you'; and before I had time to write more, or so much as to blot what I had written, I was again under the guns of the gold eyeglasses.
'It's time,' she began; and then, as she observed my occupation, 'Umph!' she broke off.

'Ye have something to write ?' she demanded.
'Some notes, madam,' said I, bowing with alacrity.
'Notes,' she said; 'or a note ?' 'There is doubtless some _finesse_ of the English language that I do not comprehend,' said I.
'I'll contrive, however, to make my meaning very plain to ye, Mosha le Viscount,' she continued.