He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal. But in this posture he fared worse than ever.
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