"As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand—"
Sir Maurice sighed.
"No. Of course not. Go on."
"It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover."
"Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?"
"The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here."
A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips.
"And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip."
In spite of himself, Philip laughed.
"Sir, you are incorrigible!"