She darted a quick look at him, one that he did not meet, for he bent over his plate and appeared to be busy with his supper.
“How dare you say that to me!” she said in a low voice. “Oh, it is too cruel—and from you!”
Glen shuddered, for he half expected that his hostess’s words would be heard.
“I beg pardon,” he said hastily. “I will take more care.”
“No, no,” she said, in the same deep, earnest tones: “scold me, say cutting, contemptuous things to me. I am a wretched creature, and deserve all.”
Glen seized and emptied his champagne-glass at a draught, and as he set it down he glanced towards the opening in the marquee, as if seeking a way to escape.
An awkward pause followed, and, judging that his companion was self-angry at her slip of words, Glen was magnanimous enough to try and pass them over, changing the conversation, or rather trying, by a dexterous movement, to draw it into another channel.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“When? During my wedding trip?” she asked, with a curious tone of bitterness in her voice.
It was a badly-planned question, Glen felt, but he must go on with it now.