It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. 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. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. The pistol, it was not loaded.
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