I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. If your wife can coach you a bit in native lingo, it will help all round. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. “For no other reason than you talk too much. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her.
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