People about them were tittering. One young man burst into a guffaw. Madame Zattiany was calmly eating her dinner. The tirade might have fallen on deaf ears.
Clavering's skin had turned almost black. His eyes looked murderous. But he did not raise his voice. "Go back to your table," he said peremptorily. "You've accomplished your revenge and I've had all I propose to stand.… By God! If you don't get out this minute I'll pick you up and carry you out and straight to your grandmother."
"Yes you would—make a scene."
"The scene could hardly be improved. Will you go?"
He half rose. Even Madame Zattiany glanced at him apprehensively.
Miss Oglethorpe laughed uncertainly. "Oh, very well. At least we never furnish material for your newspapers. That's just one thing we think beneath us." She rose and extended her hand. "Good night, Madame Zattiany," she said with a really comical assumption of the grand manner. "It has been a great pleasure to meet you."
Madame Zattiany took the proffered hand. "Good night," she said sweetly. "Your little comedy has been most amusing. Many thanks."
Miss Oglethorpe jerked her shoulders. "Well, console dear unky. He'd like the floor to open and swallow him. Ta! Ta!"
She ran back to her table, and its hilarity was shortly augmented.
Madame Zattiany looked at Clavering aghast. "But it is worse than I supposed!" she exclaimed. "It is really a tragedy. Poor Mrs. Oglethorpe." Then she laughed, silently but with intense amusement. "I wish she had been here! After all!… Nevertheless, it is a tragedy. An Oglethorpe! A mere child intoxicated … and truly atrocious manners. Why don't her people put her in a sanitarium?"