He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “Excuse me a moment. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. ” Ennison looked steadily at the cigarette which he was tapping on his forefinger. Petrified and speechless, he turned an imploring look at Wild, who was himself filled with astonishment at the pile of rubbish lying before him. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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