“You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. So, instead, they talked of dancing and what it might mean in a human life. He watched her, savoring her curious attention. “I got Sydney’s telegram at ten o’clock, and caught the ten-thirty from the Gare du Nord. He was staring at her, openly gaping. One must get them with exactly the same intensity.
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