‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. “What were you trying to do?” Lucy asked. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Down on your marrow-bones, sirrah! Confess your guilt, and Sir Rowland may yet save you from the gallows. Nigel Ennison was my very good friend, but there is not the slightest reason for your not marrying him, if you wish to do so. “I am giving my understudy a chance. Meet me. I will write to your major, and you will send the letter very quickly. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right.
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