“They do that already,” said a man, “but unlike women, they do it on the inside, not the outside of the head.”
But nobody laughed, and the dinner seemed to drag from that moment.
Leonore and Dorothy had come together, and as soon as they were in their carriage, Leonore said, “What a dull dinner it was?”
“Oh, Leonore,” cried Dorothy, “don’t talk about dinners. I’ve kept up till now, bu—” and Dorothy’s sentence melted into a sob.
“Is it home, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the tiger, sublimely unconscious, as a good servant should be, of this dialogue, and of his mistress’s tears.
“No, Portman, the Club,” sobbed Dorothy.
“Dorothy,” begged Leonore, “what is it?”
“Don’t you understand?” sobbed Dorothy. “All this fearful anarchist talk and discontent? And my poor, poor darling! Oh, don’t talk to me.” Dorothy became inarticulate once more.
“How foolish married women are!” thought Leonore, even while putting her arm around Dorothy, and trying blindly to comfort her.
“Is it a message, Mrs. Rivington?” asked the man, opening the carriage-door.