"Hullo, John! What's gone wrong with your feast? Somebody's been throwing wet blankets over the tablecloth."
He was quickly suppressed. The other men looked curious, but having more "gumption," began talking commonplaces with a commendable show of having noticed nothing unusual. Later on, Oswald Tyne murmured to the Countess Hohenfels:
"I have often thought that the exquisite virtue of Nero's vice is much underestimated. Suppose him as presiding in the present case, for instance. I presume that the brute over there is regarded by many as 'a Christian gentleman.' Think how many 'Christian gentlemen' Nero disposed of by the simple device of wrapping them in pitch and applying fire. Do you not think that this festival would have been much more festive had it been lighted by the Hon. Cecil, as a living torch?"
But the Countess Hohenfels, although she was not noted for sensibility, could not rally, even to the persiflage of Oswald Tyne.
When Arundel was apologising to Prince Suberov after dinner, the impassive Russian said quietly:
"I beg you not to give the matter another thought. The young man is evidently demented. Our sympathy should all be for his wife. What a beautiful, distinguished creature! When all is said, living is a sad métier!"
As soon as the guests rose from table, Chesney left. Sophy's pride would not allow her to go before the usual hour for such things. Every one was charming to her—almost too charming. At moments she felt that she could not bear it—that she must scream frantically, childishly, like Bobby when he had had a bad dream—or throw herself over the parapet into the Thames. But her face, though it had a pinched look, was very quiet.
Olive managed to whisper to her, once as they stood close together:
"He's a cwuel bwute ... we must get you out of his power somehow."
"Don't, Olive ... don't speak of it," Sophy had gasped out.