"—so we needn't care what they say."
I was ready to laugh at John's discomfiture, but the possible truth of his words struck me, and I cried out:
"People won't really believe I did it on purpose, whatever the papers say—that I went there just to be looked at! Oh, that would be horrible! Horrible!"
"Of course not," John said with curt inconsistency to bring me comfort; but I had a reply more sincere—a fleeting glance only, but it said: "The Queen can do no wrong."
"Oh, I hope you are right; I hope no one thought that," I said confusedly in answer to the glance. And then I bent over the Caesar that Boy laid upon my lap, while Uncle asked:—
"Well, my son, is there mutiny again in the camp of our Great and Good Friend, Divitiacus the Aeduan?"
A few minutes later John said good-night with a ludicrous expression of pained, absent-minded patience. I didn't go to the door with him; I scarcely looked up from Boy's ablative absolutes.
Oh I treated him shabbily. And yet—why did he use every effort that day to keep me ignorant of my own rightful affairs, only to come at me himself with a club, gibbering of newspapers?
Why, John's absurd! He would have liked to find me—not ill, of course, but overcome by the Opera experience, dependent on him, ready to be shielded, hidden, petted, comforted. He can not see me as I am—a strong, splendid woman, ready to accept the responsibilities of my beauty.