“Generally gets here about seven. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. 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. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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