Carve. Yes. She belonged to the aristocracy, and she was one of those amateur painters that wander about the Continent by themselves—you know.
Pascoe. And did she accept?
Carve. Oh yes. They got as far as Madrid together, and then all of a sudden my esteemed saw that he had made a mistake.
Pascoe. And what then?
Carve. We fled the country. We hooked it. The idea of coming to London struck him—just the caprice of a man who's lost his head—and here we are.
Pascoe. (After a pause.) He doesn't seem to me from the look of him to be a man who'd—shall we say?—strictly avoided women.
Carve. (Startled, with a gesture towards back.) Him?
(Pascoe nods.)
Really! Confound him! Now I've always
[30]suspected that; though he manages to keep his goings-on devilish quiet.