“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. “Ah!” said Ramage, impressively. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes. For I still love her mother. I rarely set foot in London these days.
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