You
insult me, sir. You are a rascal. You are a rascal.
Johnson, Redbrook, and a few others come in through the arch.
BRASSBOUND. Take this man away.
JOHNSON. Where are we to put him?
BRASSBOUND. Put him where you please so long as you can find him
when he is wanted.
SIR HOWARD. You will be laid by the heels yet, my friend.
REDBROOK (with cheerful tact). Tut tut, Sir Howard: what's the use
of talking back? Come along: we'll make you comfortable.
Sir Howard goes out through the arch between Johnson and Redbrook,
muttering wrathfully. The rest, except Brassbound and Lady Cicely,
follow.
Brassbound walks up and down the room, nursing his indignation. In
doing so he unconsciously enters upon an unequal contest with Lady
Cicely, who sits quietly stitching. It soon becomes clear that a
tranquil woman can go on sewing longer than an angry man can go on
fuming. Further, it begins to dawn on Brassbound's wrath-blurred
perception that Lady Cicely has at some unnoticed stage in the
proceedings finished Marzo's bandage, and is now stitching a coat.
He stops; glances at his shirtsleeves; finally realizes the
situation.
BRASSBOUND. What are you doing there, madam?
LADY CICELY. Mending your coat, Captain Brassbound.
BRASSBOUND. I have no recollection of asking you to take that
trouble.
LADY CICELY. No: I don't suppose you even knew it was torn. Some
men are BORN untidy. You cannot very well receive Sidi el--what's
his name?--with your sleeve half out.
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