“I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house.
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