"What made you speak to that feller?" he said.
"Drink your tea. I don't know. He looked miserable at being avoided,
and--"
"Miserable! He was drunk. He's done for himself in London, and pretty
near done for you too."
As he thought about it all a cloud began to settle over his face. Lady
Holme saw it and said:
"That depends on you, Fritz."
She nestled against him, put her hand over his, and kept on lifting his
hand softly and then letting it fall on his knee, as she went on:
"That all depends on you."
"How?"
He began to look at her hand and his, following their movements almost
like a child.
"If we are all right together, obviously all right, very, very
par-ti-cu-lar-ly all right--voyez vous, mon petit chou?--they will think
nothing of it. 'Poor Mr. Carey! What a pity the Duke's champagne is so
good!' That's what they'll say. But if we--you and I--are not on perfect
terms, if you behave like a bear that's been sitting on a wasps'
nest--why then they'll say--they'll say--"
"What'll they say?"
"They'll say, 'That was really a most painful scene at the Duke's. She's
evidently been behaving quite abominably. Those yellow women always bring
about all the tragedies--'"
"Yellow women!" Lord Holme ejaculated.
He looked hard at his wife. It was evident that his mind was tacking.
"Miss Schley heard what you said to the feller," he added.
"People who never speak hear everything--naturally.
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