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brothers must have sensed her willingness, for Emile Lamont suddenly began to discuss expenses, how much she would need to begin. As if the bet were laid, her part agreed.
    It was only at the end that Mr. Tremore folded his thick-muscled arms over his broad, tableclothed chest and leaned back in a lordly manner. He said, "Well, I be a very important bloke here, seems to me. But I ask ye: Whot's in it for ol' Mick?"
    All three of them went quiet. Edwina herself had assumed the man understood. "A better way of speaking, for one," she said. "Without question, I can give that to you, provided you cooperate."
    He eyed her suspiciously. "Ye'd be in charge?"
    "Yes, in matters related to your learning how to speak and conduct yourself."
    "Yer a woman," he observed.
    Well, yes. She thought about shoving away from the table then, withdrawing from the whole farce. Here she sat, thinking to tutor a big oaf, who, though theoretically clever, was apparently not smart enough to appreciate that a woman—heavens, anyone—in matters of speech and genteel behavior might know more than he did. She stared at him, her gaze dropping to the brutish, thick mustache that took up most of his upper lip—
    His chest has hair on it . The idea popped into her mind, just like that.
    She jolted, scowled, and looked down into her teacup. What a strange leap of thought. Chest hair. No, no, don't think about such things, she told herself.
    A good trick, though, how not to think about something.
    Any glimpse of his mustache seemed now to proclaim the fact to her: Beneath that tablecloth was the strangest sight. A naked chest with dark, smooth-patterned hair—black, shiny hair, a thick line of it down the center of his chest between heavy pectoral muscles. Why, who would have thought— No, don't think—dear, oh, dear. The mustache. Oh, she wished she didn't have to look at that wicked thing—wait, that was it! The mustache should go. He should shave it off. It was wiry, rough, like a broom on his lip. Not gentlemanly in the least.
    Yes, oh, yes! Edwina thought as she stared at Mr. Tremore's mustache. The knowledge that she could tell him to clean himself up, smooth himself out, starting with his upper lip, made her feel jubilant all at once, eager for the whole business.
    Meanwhile, Emile Lamont sneered at Mr. Tremore across the table. "You brawling, ungrateful swine," he said, "what you get out of this is you won't be hauled to the gaol for all the damage you wreaked today. I have a good mind to go demand our money back and call the constable again."
    "No, no, no," his brother broke in quickly. "Mr. Tremore. Think of it this way: You'll have a cushy place to live for a few weeks. You'll get a regular gentleman's wardrobe, which you can take with you when you go. And"—he raised his finger dramatically—"you will be given a new manner of speech that will be yours forever, taught by an expert. Why, there is no telling what a man with your resources can do with such an advantage."
    Mr. Tremore eyed them, a man suspicious of so much good fortune.
    Then he drained his own teacup again, wiped the wet from his mustache with his arm, and smiled across the table at the three of them. He said, "I need twenty pounds today. It be fer me family who won't be getting anything from me while I do this. Then I want fifty pounds when I be through—"
    "Why, you—" Emile Lamont came up out of his chair.
    "Be quiet," Jeremy said. "Of course, Mr. Tremore. You'll want to have something to start yourself out in whatever new direction you take. It's only fair." He withdrew his ever-open notecase again, took out a bill, then with a flourish of his wrist he offered a twenty-pound note between two fingers.
    His brother, however, quickly cupped his hand over the money, holding it back. "All right," he said. "But fifty at the end only if you manage it." He smiled condescendingly. "Not a ha'penny if you're too stupid to carry it off."
    Mr. Tremore contemplated him stonily for several