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"Married," Holmes said.
"And to a count, no less."
"Titles are meaningless. It's the continent, Watson; they make everyone a count there. I could be a count there, if I wished for it. I do not."
"Don't what?"
"Wish for it. Does he snore, do you think? I'm sure he snores."
"You snore. I've heard you."
"That's the dog. The dog snores. That's what we've got a dog for."
"If you say so, old boy."
"Old, too, yes. He snores and he's old. Jealous, too, probably. Never lets her out of his sight. Suspicious."
"With good reason, I dare say. Is she after his money or his title, do you think?"
"Typical old man with a young wife. Showing her off like a trophy, his latest, currently most prizes possession. Bores everyone with stories of his youth, and too important for people to tell him what an insufferable bore he's being."
"Right. Doesn't listen to a word anyone else says."
"I'm sorry, you were saying?"
"I said: do you want to go over there, then?"
"That's not what you said."
"Be a good thing, probably. Give him some fair warning about just what he's let himself in for."
"He sleeps with her, Watson. In the same bed. Without handcuffs."
"I thought you said you liked the handcuffs, last time. In fact, I distinctly remember it."
"But he's old. Weak heart, most likely. So. No poison, not with her kind of reputation, and there's no need, anyway. I give him six months, tops."
"We could at least write. A telegram, maybe."
"A glorious, glorious death. We should all be so lucky."
"You could ask her yourself, you know. Make an honest woman out of her. Well, no, probably not an honest one, but - "
"Propose to a married woman? Have you taken leave of your senses? Besides, what on earth could I possibly want with a wife, anyway? For one, I've nowhere to put her. And oh, have you read the article on page six? It appears a quite substantial sum of money has gone missing at a local branch of the Bank of England. It's all very mysterious, apparently. Might be interesting."