“You were there! Oh——”
“I was in the gallery. I left because, much as I love Wagner, I love air more. I suffocated.”
“Oh, but you might have come to see me,” she said, with a pout not at all provocative—a pout of sincere regret. “It was quite cool down there. In fact”—she laughed at a memory—“it was very cool indeed. Too cool.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Senhouse.
“You needn’t. Perhaps I’ll tell you”—she looked doubtfully at him, pondering. “I should like to tell you lots of things. Oh, heaps! Everything—from the beginning. I’m married, you know.” He nodded gravely.
“I can see that you are. All well?”
This made her think. “Rather well. But we must talk—it’s obvious. Will you—?” She looked at the carriage and the footman at the door of it.
“If that’s your carriage—no, I won’t, thanks. Have you walked five yards to-day? No? Then we’ll walk somewhere and have it out. You might send that sepulchre away. I’ll see you home.” Her eyes shone.
“I should love it. It shall go.” She told the footman her intentions, and sailed happily away in convoy with that tall, loosely clad young man who, to the footman’s concern, carried his hat in his hand. “Blooming Italian feller—airing his ’ead of ’air,” he told the preoccupied Musters, who said, “Tlk! Tlk!” to his horses.
She, too, remarked it. “Why, you have got a hat!” He held it up.