Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. It was Sebastian’s fault for slapping her face and letting the baby out. . . You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life. “I suppose, Mr. E. All that is jolly and as it should be.
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