“Perhaps,” she agreed.
“I think it is bad taste to raise such insinuations.” Louise was severe.
“An army,” August put in, “travels on its stomach. As Louise suggests—we must ask you not to discuss the question in your present tone.” Morice's wife half-audibly spoke into her melon, and his face reddened. “What did I understand you to say?” he demanded.
“Oh, 'Swat the fly!'” Rosalie answered hardily.
“Not at all!” he almost shouted. “What you said was 'Swat the Kaiser!'”
“Well, swat him!”
“It was evident, also, that you did not refer to the Emperor of Germany—but to me.”
“You said it,” she admitted vulgarly. “If any house ever had a Hohenzollern this has.”
“Shut up, Rosalie!” her husband commanded, perturbed; “you'll spoil everything.”
“It might be better if she continued,” Louise Foster corrected him. “Perhaps then we'd learn something of this—this beauty.”