The means to it mattered little.

The more she talked to no purpose, the more at random was their discourse, the better would her ends be served.
"Sir Rowland Blake ?" she cried.

"What is he to me ?" "Ah, what?
Let me set you the question rather." "Less than nothing," she assured him, and for some moments afterwards it was this Sir Rowland who served them as a topic for their odd interview.
On the overmantel the pulse of time beat on from a little wooden clock.
His eyes strayed to it; it marked the three-quarters.

He bethought him suddenly of his engagement.

Trenchard, below-stairs, supremely indifferent whether Wilding went to Newlington's or not, smoked on, entirely unconcerned by the flight of time.
"Mistress," said Wilding suddenly, "you have not yet told me in what you seek my service.