He drew back; the shiny red hair gave him a feeling of positive nausea. She was attempting to defeat him—she was trying to be coquettish—poor thing! … She suspected something; she hadn’t put off her mother for nothing. … He was going to the Russian Ballet with Bertha—how could he leave Bertha in the lurch? With Madeline and Rupert, too—what harm was there in it? (The fact that he heartily wished there was had really nothing to do with the point.)
Husbands and wives usually know when opposition is useless. Mary privately gave it up when she heard Nigel speak firmly and quickly—not angrily.
“I’ve made the arrangement now, and I can’t back out.”
“And what about me?” she said, in a shrill voice.
He went out of the room hastily, saying:
“I can’t help it now; if you alter your arrangements at the last minute—stop at home and read a book, or take some friend to the St. James’s.”
He ran upstairs like a hunted hare; he was afraid of being late. He had got his table at the Carlton.
Left alone in the boudoir, a terrible expression came over Mary’s face. She said to herself quite loudly:
“He is not going to the club; he’d give it up if he were. It’s something about that woman. …”
A wave of hysteria came over her, also a half-hearted hope of succeeding still by a new kind of scene. …