At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. 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. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. ” “Fine. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in.
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