Jim slipped his arm around her waist. "My dear, my dear, how could you think such a thing? We were talking about a general subject. We were——Why, we didn't say anything that could possibly affect you."
"I don't care," Muriel declared: "everything that he said—that man—was awful."
"It was," admitted Stainton, glad that the burden of offence had again been shifted to Boussingault's shoulders. "It was, rather. I didn't know whether you were paying attention to it at all. To some of it I hoped you weren't."
"Nobody could help hearing such shouting. I was so afraid there might be some English or Americans there."
"Still, you didn't appear to hear,"—Stainton spoke with relief at thought of this,—"so it was as well as it could be."
"I must have shown it, Jim. I thought my face would burn away."
"At any rate, you didn't talk."
"How could I?"
Stainton was silent for a few seconds. Then he asked:
"What did you mean by your question?"