On the contrary, she was highly strung,
unusually sensitive. What she was most acutely conscious of was a
sensation of lonely excitement, of solitary expectation. Fritz fidgeted
about the house, and the fact that he did so gave her no more concern
than if a little dog had been running to and fro. She did not want him to
tell her what was the matter. On the other hand, she did want him not to
tell her. Simply she did not care.
He said nothing. Perhaps something in her look, her manner, kept him
dumb.
When they were in the motor on the way to Manchester House, he said:
"I bet you'll cut out everbody."
"Oh, there are all sorts of stars."
"Well, mind you put 'em all out."
It was evident to her that for some reason or other he was particularly
anxious she should shine that afternoon. She meant to. She knew she was
going to. But she had no desire to shine in order to gratify Fritz's
egoism. Probably he had just had a quarrel with Miss Schley and wanted to
punish her through his wife. The idea was not a pretty one. Unfortunately
that circumstance did not ensure its not being a true one.
"Mind you do, eh?" reiterated her husband, giving the steering wheel a
twist and turning the car up Hamilton Place.
"I shall try to sing well, naturally," she replied coldly. "I always do."
"Of course--I know."
There was something almost servile in his manner, an anxiety which was
quite foreign to it as a rule.
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