"All right," he said. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. " "Wear that to-night, then.
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