Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Befuddle yourself, if you want to. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. ‘Yes, but I do not know why he should wish to do so, and therefore I cannot permit that he interferes.
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