"I don't understand you." She drooped disdainful eyelids.
"What you said was unworthy of you. You know it was."
"I really forget what I did say. Please talk about something else. What is it they are playing?"
They were playing Cavalleria now, so he scorned to reply to this otherwise than by a look.
"I asked you a question," she said in tones of ice.
"I beg your pardon," he answered hastily. "They are playing Cavalleria Rusticana. An opera. Written by a young Italian. His name is Mascagni."
"You are rude!" she exclaimed.
"I am human, Joan. You hurt me!"
Then her sister and Bletchworth reappeared. "Perhaps you know a good hotel?" Conrad was saying.
"An hotel where?" inquired Lady Bletchworth.