Lord Holme drew in his legs, sat up and stared with a sort of uneasy inquiry which he tried to make hard. She laughed quickly, nervously.
“I’m tired, I tell you. It was awfully hot at the opera.”
She put some more ice into the lemonade, and added:
“By the way, Fritz, I suppose you locked up all right?”
“Locked up what?”
“The front door. All the servants have gone to bed, you know.”
No sooner had she spoken the last words than she regretted them. If Leo did get in they took away all excuse. She might have pretended he had been let in. He would have had to back her up. It would have been mean of her, of course. Still, seeing her husband there, Leo would have understood, would have forgiven her. Women are always forgiven such subterfuges in unfortunate moments. What a fool she was to-night!
“That don’t matter,” said her husband, shortly.
“But—but it does. You know how many burglaries there are. Why, only the other night Mrs. Arthur came home from a ball and met two men on the stairs.”
“I pity any men I found on my stairs,” he returned composedly, touching the muscle of his left arm with his right hand.