"He noticed my slight shifting and rose at once himself, donning his banyan before fetching my own dressing gown--which, I saw with a sense of unease, some kindly hand had hung over a chair to warm before the fire. "Where did that come from?" I asked, nodding at the silk robe he held for me. "From your bedroom, I assume." He frowned at me for a moment before discerning what I meant. "Oh. Mrs. Figg brought it in when she built the fire." "Oh," I said faintly. The thought of Mrs. Figg seeing me in Lord John's bed--doubtless out cold, disheveled, and snoring, if not actually drooling--was hideously mortifying. For that matter, the mere fact of my being in his bed was deeply embarrassing, no matter what I had looked like. "We are married," he pointed out, with a slight edge to his voice. "Er ... yes. But ..." A further thought came to me: perhaps this was not so unusual an occurrence for Mrs. Figg as I thought--had he entertained other women in his bed from time to time? "Do you sleep with women? Er ... not sleep, I mean, but ..." He stared at me, stopped in the act of untangling his hair. "Not willingly," he said. He paused, then laid down his silver comb. "Is there anything else you would like to ask me," he inquired, with exquisite politeness, "before I allow the bootboy to come in?" --