Just then, the Royal Engineer -- the real one, not her foalish, manaburn-fever-dream-induced colt -- emerged from the change-room once more, and her heart skipped a beat. Dressed in what the appallingly excellent tailors at the Bridle Path Clothiers had determined would be appropriate hot-weather exercise wear, Anonymous' second outfit left almost nothing to the imagination. A halter shirt exposed every inch of the broad, well-muscled shoulders of her dream. Tight, stretchy shorts exposed even more of his strong, firm hips and plot. And a large, ample bulge at the front sent her delusion roaring back into the foreground.