I had the effrontery to sing this verse of an old soldiers' song while Lady Lathkill was finishing her celery and nut salad. I sang it quite nicely, in a natty, well-balanced little voice, smiling all over my face meanwhile. The servant, as he went round for Lady Lathkill's plate, furtively fetched a look at me. Look! thought I. You chicken that's come untrussed!
The partridges had gone, we had swallowed the flan, and were at dessert. They had accepted my song in complete silence. Even Carlotta! My flan had gone down in one gulp, like an oyster.
"You're quite right!" said Lord Lathkill, amid the squashing of walnuts. "I mean the state of mind of a Viking, shall we say, or of a Cataline conspirator, might be frightfully good for us, if we could re-capture it."
"A Viking!" said I, stupefied. And Carlotta gave a wild snirt of laughter.
"Why not a Viking?" he asked in all innocence.
"A Viking!" I repeated, and swallowed my port. Then I looked round at my black-browed neighbour.
"Why do you never say anything?" I asked.
"What should I say?" she replied, frightened at the thought.
I was finished. I gazed into my port as if expecting the ultimate revelation.
Lady Lathkill rustled her finger-tips in the finger-bowl, and laid down her napkin decisively. The Colonel, old buck, rose at once to draw back her chair. Place aux hommes! I bowed to my neighbour, Mrs. Hale, a most disconcerting bow, and she made a circuit to get by me.