He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. If you can imagine it, I survived it. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. I don’t understand the workings of a gentleman’s mind. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much.
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