She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. "You have behaved like a man of honour, Sir Rowland," said Wild, after he had twice told over the money. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. "The opinions, entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had deserted. I hope—I am sure that he did not see me. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. I hope that she is okay.
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