She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. He was all alone, like herself. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. "This is the gentleman," observed Jonathan, introducing Trenchard to the Hollander, "who is about to intrust his young relation to your care. A day will come when you will thank me. She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women.
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