"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. . They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. It has all been a mistake. He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. "Plague on't!" added he: "I never meant to take your babby from you.
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