He sighed. Hyacinth was not quite sure that he understood. The suggestion was so calmly made and reasoned on that it seemed impossible that it could be as iniquitous as it appeared.
‘There’s no one such an utter fool about women,’ went on the Captain, ‘as your respectable married man, who never does anything wrong himself. I’d heard of Miss Goold, as everybody has, and listened to discussions about her character. You know just as well as I do the sort of things they say about her.’
Hyacinth did know very well, and flared up in defence of his patroness.
‘They are vile lies.’
‘That’s just what I’m saying. Those respectable people who tell the lies are such fools. They think that every woman who doesn’t mew about at afternoon parties must be a bad one. Now, anyone with a little experience would know at once that Miss Goold—what’s this the other one called her? Oh yes, Finola—that Finola may be a fool, but she’s not that.’
He pulled himself together as he spoke. Evidently he plumed himself, on his experience and the faculty for judging it had brought him.
‘Now, I’d just as soon have asked my sister-in-law to come to Paris with me for a fortnight as Finola. You don’t know Mrs. James Quinn, I think. That’s a pity. She’s the most domesticated and virtuous haus-frau in the world.’
He paused, and then asked Hyacinth, ‘Why are you doing it?’
Again Hyacinth was reduced by sheer surprise to a futility.
‘Doing what?’