Then
she crossed over to her husband.
"Why don't you go into the concert-room, Fritz? You're missing
everything, and you're only in the way here."
She did not speak unkindly. He said nothing, only cleared his throat.
"Go in," she said. "I should like to have you there while I am singing."
He cleared his throat again.
"Right you are."
He stared into her eyes with a sort of savage admiration.
"Cut her out," he said. "Cut her out! You can, and--damn her!--she
deserves it."
Then he turned and went out.
Lady Holme felt rather sick for a moment. She knew she was going to sing
well, she wished to sing well--but not in order to punish Miss Schley for
having punished Fritz. Was everything she did to accomplish some sordid
result? Was even her singing--the one thing in which Robin Pierce and
some other divined a hidden truth that was beautiful--was even that to
play its contemptible part in the social drama in which she was so
inextricably entangled? Those gossamer threads were iron strands indeed.
Someone else was singing--her friend with the contralto voice.
She sat down alone in a corner. Presently the French actor began to give
one of his famous monologues. She heard his wonderfully varied elocution,
his voice--intelligence made audible and dashed with flying lights of
humour rising and falling subtly, yet always with a curious sound of
inevitable simplicity. She heard gentle titterings from the concealed
audience, then a definite laugh, then a peal of laughter quite gloriously
indiscreet.
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