He was angling, and had hoped for a minnow, but was by no means prepared for a whale. Gita turned white, then almost purple; her eyes shot red sparks and her mouth drew back until it made an ugly grimace. For a moment he thought she was going to strike him. A curious devastating force seemed to emanate from her and he turned hot all over, as if his skin had been seared. He was almost terrified but had the presence of mind to move forward; if his face were slapped his ignominy would not be too public at least.
The expression lasted but an instant and her face settled into a mask of fear; he had the impression that she was no longer aware of his presence. “If I thought that,” she articulated, “I’d go out and kill myself. It is the most hideous fate that can befall a woman, the most loathsome and degrading. But—thank God!—I’m not capable of it.”
There was another lightning change and he was staring, almost open-mouthed, at the Miss Carteret to whom he was so agreeably accustomed. “You psychological novelists,” she said complainingly, “with your everlasting probing, get on my nerves. And your assumption that you can make a fashion of bad taste even more. The radical is not in the saddle yet, and even when he is, there will be groups in which manners and codes will survive and become the standard once more when the same old wheel has finished the same old revolution. Look at France.”
He smiled amusedly. “Perhaps. But freedom of speech and of thought seems to me of more consequence than taste. . . . But I wouldn’t offend you for the world,” he added hastily. “Nor, for a jugful, have you other than you are.”
“Thanks.” She rose, and smiled as he rose also. “Odd, you never forget your own manners. What a lot of self-posers we are! I see that supper is being brought in and I’m sure you want yours.”
“Whew!” Turner almost whistled as he stood where she had left him. “Whew!” And he wondered if he had had a glimmer. . . .
CHAPTER XI
“I’m going down to the manor tomorrow,” announced Gita as she and Eustace lingered for a moment in the drawing-room after the last guest had departed.
“Tomorrow? But we were not to go until Tuesday.”
“You needn’t go. In fact I’d like to be alone for a while. Tired out. Don’t want to open my mouth for a week.”