“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands.
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