Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. He had adroitly captured her and led her away from her other guests on the pretext of feigning an interest in her charitable attitude to the newly arrived French. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it.
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