“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. And all the old—the old trick of shrinking up like a snail at a touch. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. Their flitting hands were always touching. She tried to be casual. Gerald had been confident that the boy would not dream of disobeying an order thrown at him by a major of militia, but he guessed Jack might be wondering if he was about to be haled off to prison. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch.
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