As he thought about it all a cloud began to settle over his face. Lady Holme saw it and said:
“That depends on you, Fritz.”
She nestled against him, put her hand over his, and kept on lifting his hand softly and then letting it fall on his knee, as she went on:
“That all depends on you.”
“How?”
He began to look at her hand and his, following their movements almost like a child.
“If we are all right together, obviously all right, very, very par-ti-cu-lar-ly all right—voyez vous, mon petit chou?—they will think nothing of it. ‘Poor Mr. Carey! What a pity the Duke’s champagne is so good!’ That’s what they’ll say. But if we—you and I—are not on perfect terms, if you behave like a bear that’s been sitting on a wasps’ nest—why then they’ll say—they’ll say—”
“What’ll they say?”
“They’ll say, ‘That was really a most painful scene at the Duke’s. She’s evidently been behaving quite abominably. Those yellow women always bring about all the tragedies—‘”
“Yellow women!” Lord Holme ejaculated.