"I feel sure, my lady, that there has been an unfortunate accident." He made a slight gesture to the blue-smocked attendants. His voice grew thinly colourless. "Lot 71. Here we have …" And H.M. and Lady Brayle were left alone in a sort of closed ring, surreptitiously watched.
"Henry," the old lady said calmly.
"Uh-huh?"
"I am compelled to tell you something. For nine generations," declared Lady Brayle in a shaky voice, "your family have held the baronetcy in a direct line. Yet speak I must — Henry, you are not a gentleman."
"So I'm not a gentleman, hey?" inquired H.M., getting a firmer grip on the guisarme.
"No, you are not."
"Listen, Sophie," said H.M… tapping her on the shoulder. "I'm going to show you just how goddam gentlemanly I really am. I've had a reincarnation. Got it?"
Lady Brayle, whose confused mind evidently connected this with some sort of surgical operation, stared at him. Swiftly, silently, the bidding rippled round the table, followed by the tap of the hammer. It was the Words, "Lot 72," followed by a sudden loud murmur to drown out the next part, which galvanized Lady Brayle. The spectators, though interested, seemed reluctant to bid.
"Shall we start it at five pounds?… Five? … Will anyone say five?"
"I really," cried Lady Brayle, "cannot continue this childish discussion any longer." In haste and anxiety, which often happens at such moments, her contralto rang loudly. "Five pounds!"