"Yet I think I have heard some Italian operatic spitfires, and of some!" said Lady Charlotte.
"What opinion do you pronounce in this controversy?" Cornelia made appeal to Sir Twickenham.
"There are multitudes of cases," he began: and took up another end of his statement: "It has been computed that five-and-twenty murders per month to a population…to a population of ninety thousand souls, is a fair reckoning in a Southern latitude."
"Then we must allow for the latitude?"
"I think so."
"And also for the space into which the ninety thousand souls are packed," quoth Tracy Runningbrook.
"Well! well!" went Sir Twickenham.
"The knife is the law to an Italian of the South," said Mr. Powys. "He distrusts any other, because he never gets it. Where law is established, or tolerably secure, the knife is not used. Duels are rare. There is too much bonhomie for the point of honour."
"I should like to believe that all men are as just to their mistresses,"
Lady Charlotte sighed, mock-earnestly.
Presently Emilia touched the arm of Mr. Powys. She looked agitated. "I want to be told the name of that gentleman." His eyes were led to rest on the handsome hussar-captain.