There he was in three cornered hat and cloak, his powdered wig white in the moonlight, pacing up and down, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

He caught sight of the shrinking figure in the shadow and the hat was doffed in a profound bow.

Undoubtedly a good looking young man, but as undoubtedly a fop of the first water with his ruffles and bosom of Mechlin lace, red heels to his shoes, gold clocks on his silk stockings and the whiff of scent which heralded his coming.
When near enough his arm went round her and he drew back her hood.

He kissed her closely, so closely indeed that his ardour almost frightened her, though she knew not why.

He withdrew his lips and gazed into her face, his own paling under the violence of his passion.
"Dearest Lavinia," he murmured.