The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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