“I meant to, but I felt tired after the opera.”
“Why don’t you toddle off to bed then?”
“I feel tired, I don’t feel sleepy.”
Lord Holme stared at her, put his hand into his trousers pocket and pulled out his cigarette-case. Lady Holme knew that he had been in a good humour when he came home, and that the sight of her sitting up in the drawing-room had displeased him. She had seen a change come into his face. He had been looking gay. He began to look glum and turned his eyes away from her.
“What have you been up to?” she asked, with a sudden light gaiety and air of comradeship.
“Club—playin’ bridge,” he answered, lighting a cigarette.
He shot a glance at her sideways as he spoke, a glance that was meant to be crafty. If she had not been excited and horribly jealous, such a glance would probably have amused her, even made her laugh. Fritz’s craft was very transparent. But she could not laugh now. She knew he was telling her the first lie that had occurred to him.
“Lucky?” she asked, still preserving her light and casual manner.
“Middlin’,” he jerked out.
He sat down in an armchair and slowly stretched his legs, staring up at the ceiling. Lady Holme began to think rapidly, feverishly.