He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. She didn’t choose her man. His hand flew across the paper. With the broken links of the chain, which served him in lieu of more efficient implements, he commenced operations just above the chimney-piece, and soon contrived to pick a hole in the plaster. She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life and the changing mysteries of the sea. ‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand. . . ” He chuckled, wincing at the thought. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. ‘It is what my father intended.
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