"I have thin boots."
"Another pair?"
"My maid buttons. She is at church."
"My fingers?"
"Ten on each."
"Five," he corrected.
"Buttons."
"I beg your pardon."
She saw opportunity. She swam to the bell-rope and grasped it for a tinkle. The action spread feminine curves to her lover's eyes. He was a man.
Obsequiousness loomed in the doorway. Its mistress flashed an order for port—two glasses. Sir Rebus sprang a pair of eyebrows on her. Suspicion slid down the banisters of his mind, trailing a blue ribbon. Inebriates were one of his hobbies. For an instant she was sunset.