She called a man to her side and sent him on an immediate errand. When he was gone she returned to Susan.
"I've sent somebody to fetch your husband," she said. "He ought to take more care of you. I shall scold him."
"Oh, don't!" she cried faintly, but her champions took no notice; and soon Barnaby himself came swinging along the room.
"Barnaby," said the Duchess, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Take your wife up to supper."
The first rush was over upstairs in the supper-room, and Barnaby found a corner. She sat with him at a little round table behind a tall plant that shut off the world with its wide green fronds, some sheltering exotic. And he was pouring out champagne, a drink she hated. She put her hand over the top of the glass, and he caught it and lifted it off, holding it in his while he poured on unchecked.
"It's not good stuff,—but it's good for you. Drink!" he said.
He seemed to be laughing at her from an immeasurable distance; his prescription had made her dizzy.
"It will go off in a minute; you wanted it badly," he was saying, in a voice that sounded far away and unlike his own.
"It has gone to my head," she said, appealing to him. "I'm afraid I shall say something silly. Don't let me. Don't let me talk....'"
"Why not? There is nobody listening," he was saying, encouraging her; amused.