"Oh, my dear Numa, bosh!" exclaimed Henri genially.
No sooner had he said it than he recognised his error, I am sure. Martime's eyes flashed poniards, and his face turned turnip colour with offence. Perceiving his indignation, Jacques began to stammer hasty insincerities, and Henri also did his utmost to palliate the affront, but I could not persuade myself that their efforts were successful. For a minute or two Martime remained stiff and monosyllabic, and then, with a few formal words, got up and went.
"I fear he was annoyed," murmured Jacques.
"You 'fear'!" said Henri irascibly. I was dismayed to hear resentment in his tone.
Though Martime had gone the constraint continued; and it was not long before we rose.
As Henri and I walked on, after Jacques had parted from us, I said: "Very stupid of Martime. You spoke in quite a friendly way."
"And still more stupid of Jacques to talk about the story to him," he flung back, at white heat. "What possible interest could Jacques' difficulties have for Martime? Childish!"
"But—pardon me, it was you who first mentioned the matter," I said.
"Ah, don't split straws," he growled. Clearly, the incident disturbed him more than a little.
It was probably a week or ten days afterwards that Jacques came to me in great perturbation and volleyed, "What do you think? Henri has got his knife into me! It appears that Martime has returned the play, and Henri says it is my fault."