Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly. ‘I do not command your services, mon major. That’s the wonder of it. There's another lad at the gate waiting for him—the same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking of, who fastened up the jewelcase for her ladyship. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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