Lord Otford started slightly at the last name.
"Eh? Mr. and Mrs. what?"
"Brooke-Hoskyn. Sh!" pointing to the house with his thumb. "Very distinguished man. Moves in the highest circles. Hote tonn, Jack. Dines in town regularly four times a week."
"Man of family?" asked Lord Otford.
"Family?" roared the Admiral. "Well, I should say so. Four little gels in five years, and more to come! Never met him?"
"I seem to remember a man called Hoskyn," said his friend nonchalantly.
The Admiral shook his head in dismissal of the undistinguished Hoskyn. "No, no. This is Brooke-Hoskyn; Brooke—h'm—Hoskyn; with a hyphen."
Lord Otford had had enough of Brooke-Hoskyn. "Go on about the French widow."
"Well, one morning their shay was signalled from the back of the Misses Pennymint. We'd all been watching for their coming, y' know, because of their house having been painted white—but that's another yarn altogether. Shays can't get beyond the corner of Pomander Lane; so I had time to put on my uniform, and my medals, and my cocked hat—"
"Meant to show 'em you was Admiral on your own quarter-deck, eh?"