Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. She saw his eyes glaze over. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. That's the only fault I know of. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable.
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