BRASSBOUND (disconcerted). I--I don't know how it got torn.
LADY CICELY. You should not get virtuously indignant with people.
It bursts clothes more than anything else, Mr. Hallam.
BRASSBOUND (flushing, quickly). I beg you will not call me Mr.
Hallam. I hate the name.
LADY CICELY. Black Paquito is your pet name, isn't it?
BRASSBOUND (huffily). I am not usually called so to my face.
LADY CICELY (turning the coat a little). I'm so sorry. (She takes
another piece of thread and puts it into her needle, looking
placidly and reflectively upward meanwhile.) Do you know, You are
wonderfully like your uncle.
BRASSBOUND. Damnation!
LADY CICELY. Eh?
BRASSBOUND. If I thought my veins contained a drop of his black
blood, I would drain them empty with my knife. I have no
relations. I had a mother: that was all.
LADY CICELY (unconvinced) I daresay you have your mother's
complexion. But didn't you notice Sir Howard's temper, his
doggedness, his high spirit: above all, his belief in ruling
people by force, as you rule your men; and in revenge and
punishment, just as you want to revenge your mother? Didn't you
recognize yourself in that?
BRASSBOUND (startled). Myself!--in that!
LADY CECILY (returning to the tailoring question as if her last
remark were of no consequence whatever). Did this sleeve catch you
at all under the arm? Perhaps I had better make it a little easier
for you.
BRASSBOUND (irritably).
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