From down the table in a sudden lull in the talk came the voice of Mr Barstowe. He seemed to be in the middle of a narrative.
'Fortunately,' he was saying, 'I had with me a volume of Shelley, and one of my own little efforts. I had read Miss Keith the whole of the latter and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that it was once more possible—'
'Elsa,' said the wretched man, 'I had no idea—you don't think—'
She turned to him.
'I beg your pardon?' she said, very sweetly.
'I swear I didn't know—I mean, I'd forgotten—I mean—'
She wrinkled her forehead.
'I'm really afraid I don't understand.'
'I mean, about the car breaking down.'
'The car? Oh, yes. Yes, it broke down. We were delayed quite a little while. Mr Barstowe read me some of his poems. It was perfectly lovely. I was quite sorry when Roberts told us we could go on again. But do you really mean to tell me, Mr Lambert, that you—'