A French girl sitting at the next table laughed and murmured an epithet in argot. Sylvia's cheeks flamed; she was about to spring up and make a quarrel, but Philidor restrained her.
"Do you wonder that I protest against your exposing yourself to that sort of thing?" he said. "What are you going to do? It wouldn't be quite you, would it, to hit her over the head with a champagne-bottle? Let the vile tongue say what it pleases."
"Yes, but it's so outrageous, it's so—ah, I've no words for the beastliness of people," Sylvia exclaimed.
"May I dance this dance?" Queenie interrupted, timidly.
"Good heavens! Why do you ask me, girl? What has it to do with me? Dance with the devil if you like."
Queenie looked bewildered by Sylvia's emphasis and went off again in silence.
"And now you see the only person that's really hurt is your little friend," Philidor observed. "You're much too sure of yourself to care about a sneer like that, and she didn't hear what the woman called you, or perhaps understand it if she heard."
Sylvia was silent; she was thinking of once long ago when Lily had asked her if she could dance with Michael; now she blushed after nine years lest he might have thought for a moment what that woman had said.
"You're quite right," she agreed with Philidor. "This is a damnable life. Would you like to hear Queenie's story?"
"There's no need for you to defend yourself to me," he laughed.