Sir Thomas emitted a sharp sound of disgust.
“You’re not yourself, Rose. Be quiet,” he commanded her.
His arm swept her aside as he opened the door.
Ford moved slowly from his place at the marble mantelpiece.
As he passed Rose he said pleasantly: “You’ll feel upset about this, I’m afraid, when you come to yourself again. But pray let us have no apologies. Personally, I’ll take them as said, if you’ll spare us another dramatic display. These things, you know, really aren’t done.”
That was it: these things weren’t done.
Lucian realized it very thoroughly, as he saw the contemptuous distaste evident on the habitually inexpressive face of Sir Thomas when the women had passed out of the room.
Rose had flung down her gage with all the violence of the strong, undisciplined feeling that governed her. These people had been too well-bred to pick it up. To them, there was never anything to be angry, or noisy, or emotional, about. They were self-controlled by instinct. Their spirits knew no revolt at all. Nothing mattered to them, as almost everything mattered to Rose, the vulgar, the vehemently alive.
He made no doubt that they would not talk very much about her outburst, even amongst themselves. He, the outsider, would never hear any more of it from them. He had no right to have been present.
Prompted by the thought, he began his farewell, taking it as the measure of Lady Aviolet’s perturbation that she had only bowed a mechanical good-night to him as she left the room, forgetting that he was not a guest in the house.