“I think you’re very unfair, Oswald.”

“Never done an honest day’s work in his life. A real waster if there ever was one. He’d never get on if he had his way to make in the world.”

“You must have got your feet damp last night,” said Lady Coote. “I hope you won’t get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I’ve asked Mr. Thesiger down for next weekend, by the way.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Oswald. “I won’t have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?”

“Why not?”

“That’s my business.”