He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. “I don’t know. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. I kicked the living shit out of him. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Please stay,” she said briefly. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear.
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