Watts sat down in an easy-chair, and striking a match, lighted a cigarette. “That, Celestine,” he said in French, “is what in English we call a self-evident proposition.”
Celestine’s foot began to tap the floor, “You needn’t pretend you expected I would follow you. You thought you could drop me, like an old slipper.”
Watts blew a whiff of tobacco from his mouth. “It was a remark of Ricard’s, I believe, ‘that in woman, one should always expect the unexpected.’”
“Mon Dieu!” shrieked Celestine. “If I—if I could kill you—you—”
She was interrupted by Peter’s bringing a chair to her and saying in French, “Will you not sit down, please?”
She turned in surprise, for she had been too wrought up to notice that Peter was in the room. She stared at him and then sat down.
“That’s right,” said Watts. “Take it easy. No occasion to get excited.”
“Ah!” screamed Celestine, springing to her feet, “your name shall be in all the papers. You shall—”
Peter again interrupted. “Madame, will you allow me to say something?” He spoke gently and deferentially.
Celestine looked at him again, saying rapidly: “Why should I listen to you? What are you to me? I don’t even know you. My mind’s made up. I tell you—” The woman was lashing herself into a fury, and Peter interrupted her again: