Flossie, who had drunk more wine than any of them, was trying to look as though it were a joke.

Duncombe, with his disordered evening clothes, his stained shirt-front and errant tie, was master of the situation.

He came and stood a few feet away from them.
His blundering French accent and slow choice of words had departed.

He spoke to them without hesitation, and his French was almost as good as their own.
"I want you to keep your places," he said, "and listen to me for a few minutes.

I can assure you I am neither mad nor drunk.