Then the girl was heading past the inn and Roding marched down to confront her. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. And through all these defences and into Old Palace Yard, into the very vitals of the defenders’ position, lumbered the unsuspected vans. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor.
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