In the background, shaking out the folds of an elegant coat, John growled: “Ay, you may well ask, mistress. It’s taken leave of his senses he has.”
Robin laughed out. “My poor John! I shall be the death of you yet.”
“You’ll be the death of yourself, sir, and well you know it.”
Prudence came further into the room. “What mischief now?”
“Madam Prude! I salute you. No mischief, nor any madness either.”
“I’m not so sure. Pray will you be serious?”
He held the mask over his eyes. “What, shall I be known?”
“There’s to be an unmasking at supper. What then?”
“At the supper hour — farewell, Robin!” He blew an imaginary kiss from the tips of his fingers, and tossed the mask on to a chair. “Don’t play the spoil sport, sister mine.”
She shrugged. “It’s to jeopardise your life for a pair of brown eyes.”