’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. I hate this part of the world. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. That is the dreadful truth.
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