'That was Delicia—my wife,' he answered curtly.
'That! That the novelist!' almost screamed Lady Brancewith. 'Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you introduce me? I had no idea she was like that! I thought all literary women wore short hair and spectacles! Good gracious me! And she must have heard you say you considered her "unsexed!" Billy, what a brute you are!'
Carlyon started angrily. The fair Lily and he used in former days to call each other 'Billy' and 'Lily' so frequently that a wag among their acquaintance made a rhyme on them, running thus:—
'Lily and Billy
Are invariably silly!
and at that time he did not mind it. But now, considering that he was 'Lord' Carlyon, he did not care to be addressed as 'Billy,' and his resentment showed itself pretty plainly on his darkened countenance. But Lady Brancewith was too much excited to heed his annoyance.
'The idea!' she continued. 'If she was sitting there all the while she must have heard everything! A nice mess you have made of it! If I were in her place, I'd throw you off like a pair of old shoes!'
'I haven't the least doubt you would,' he said with temper. 'It's the way you behave with most men who have the honour of sharing your favour!'
Lily Brancewith showed her pearly teeth in a savage little smile.
'You were always what is called "rather shady," Billy,' she observed calmly. 'But I didn't give you credit for being quite a cad! Ta-ta! I'm going to find your wife and introduce myself to her. You know in society people said you were to be pitied for marrying a "literary" celebrity, but I shall put the gossips right on that point—I shall tell everybody it is she who is to be pitied for marrying a military nonentity!'
With a light laugh at her own sarcasm she left him, and started on a voyage of discovery after Delicia. The people were wedged together in groups at every available point to watch the dancing of "La Marina," who had commenced her performance, and who was announced for that evening as 'Mademoiselle Violet de Gascon' out of deference to the 'proprieties,' who might possibly have been shocked had they been too openly told that the figurante was the 'Empire's' famous 'Marina,' though they were quite aware of the fact all the time. For in the strange motley we call society, one of the chief rules is that if you know a truth you must never say it; you must say something else, as near to a lie as possible. For example, if you are aware, and everybody else is aware, that a lady of exalted title has outraged, or is outraging, every sense of decency and order in her social and private life, you must always say she is one of the purest and most innocent creatures living. Of course, if she is a nobody, without any rank at all, you are at liberty to give her poor name over to the dogs of slander to rend at will; but if she is a countess or a duchess, you must entirely condone her vulgar vices. Think of her title! Think of her family connections! Think of the manner in which her influence might be brought to bear on some little matter in which you personally have an interest! Lady Brancewith knew all this well enough; she knew exactly how to play her cards, and she was sufficiently a woman of the world to salute 'La Marina' with a pretty bow and compliment as soon as her dance was finished, and to express the plaintive wish, uttered sighingly, 'How glad I should be if I were half so clever!'