“She is marvellously clever,” he said. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. I might have known it. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. As soon as dinner was over she went into the kitchen and devoted herself to compiling a tray—not a tray merely of halfcooled dinner things, but a specially prepared “nice” tray, suitable for tempting any one. It was the gallows. You’re dogmatic. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically.
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