"Geoffrey, you are a cur," says Mr. Hadley in his ear.
"You are lying," Alison cried.
Mr. Waverton laughed and waved his hand. "Oh, ma'am, you are a chameleon. The other day you desired nothing better than monsieur's demise. Now at the news of it you grow venomous. I vow I cannot keep pace with your changes. I must withdraw from your intimacy. 'Tis too exacting for my poor vigour. Madame, your most humble."
"Not yet," Alison cried.
"Let him go, ma'am," Mr. Hadley broke in sharply. "Go home, sirrah.
You'll not wait long before you hear from me."
"From which hand?" Geoffrey flicked at the empty sleeve. "Nay, faith, it suits madame well, the left-handed champion."
Mr. Hadley turned on his heel. "Pray, ma'am, leave us. This is become my affair."
"I have not done with him yet," Alison said.
But the door was opened for the servant to say: "Captain Hector McBean, Mr. Patrick O'Connor," and with a clank of spurs and something of a military swagger the little man and the long man marched in.
Captain McBean swept a glance round the room.