’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. He saluted awkwardly. I asked him—to take me away. He would go there. . She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. In the present case it did not matter, as there was no one else within earshot. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. Silence! Then Anna clutched her companion’s arm. I’ve wanted you—always. Their minds are turned against him.
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