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. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object.
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