He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Ann Veronica found her attention wandering a little as he told her that he was not ashamed to feel almost slavish in the presence of really beautiful people, and then they came to the Michaelmas daisies. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. She felt the whack from about six feet away, kitty corner. ‘Rather would I die than fall in with such a plan. That's a queer yarn. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. She had had two days of employment-seeking now. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. A familiar figure was making his way towards them.
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