“Marriage-ring finger, dear,” said Helen wildly, completely forgetting for the moment that Gracie had divorced her husband only six months ago. Then suddenly she remembered, and gave a shriek of laughter.
“Oh, I wish I could say that sort of thing when I wanted to,” she exclaimed. “I only make awful gaffes by accident. It must be lovely to make them on purpose. But there’s more to follow, Henry. You got to where I liked people who elbowed others in the face.”
“Yes, I stick to that. You don’t like them because they elbow other people in the face, mind: you only like them though they do these elbowings. And there’s much more to follow.”
“Out with it,” said Lady Massingberd. “My third finger is for my marriage ring. Never shall I forget that.”
“Go on, Henry,” said Helen.
“I am going on. You make a profound mistake. You think you are being democratic: I have known you even think you were socialistic. But you are only being snobbish. The opera bores you very much——”
“She doesn’t know one note from another,” interjected Lady Massingberd.
“But you go in order to pay homage to that immense Kuhlmann, about whom everyone is talking.”
“He is coming down here this afternoon,” murmured Lady Grote.
“I felt sure of it. So probably is that man who wrote the play which the Lord Chamberlain refused to license. You don’t care for plays.”