“What, George!” said he. “I vow I was so lost in what I read I hardly noted you. What’s wrong with your cravat?”
Hamilton, his head still tilted, responded brusquely but nosily—“It’s chokid be, that’s all.”
Her little ladyship laughed.
“I’ll be done in a moment, poor man.”
“Zounds!” blustered her husband. “Here, let me fasten it!”
She ignored him altogether.
“How sweet you smell, cousin!” she said. “Is it kissing-comfits?”
“That’s for sweet lips to answer,” gurgled Hamilton.
My lord, in a vicious spasm, gripped the little wrist and wrenched it from its task. Hamilton cried “Damnation!” and my lady, putting the wounded limb to her mouth, looked up at him with wide appealing eyes.
“Some beast has hurt me,” she said. “Take care of yourself, cousin, while I go and bathe it.”