“Not Jack.”
“No one has touched the thing for months.”
“That accounts for the discords. Mistress Barbara is picking up the old fascinations that girls learn at school. Phew! Jack must be a gallant liar if he can swear that he enjoys it!”
“For Heaven’s sake, be quiet, Stephen. I want to listen.”
She bent toward the window, holding her hollowed hand to her ear. My Lord Gore pulled down his ruffles and leaned gracefully against the wainscoting. He winced hypersensitively as the harpsichord notes jangled out of tune.
“Well, madam, if you can make anything out of it—”
“Be still.”
“For five minutes I will have no tongue.”
There was an expression of bleak intentness upon Anne Purcell’s face. More than once her lips moved. My lord watched her with an air of cynical tolerance.
Suddenly she straightened at the hips and swung the lattice to with a clash of impatience.