"My face is stiff with grinning," he said, "but I'll do what I can for you—"
"Please include yourself, too."
"Oh, I can stand their opinions," he said; "I only meet the yellow sort occasionally; I don't herd with them."
"I do, thank you."
"How do you like them? What is your opinion of the yellow set? Here they sit all about you—the Phoenix Mottlys, Mrs. Delmour-Carnes yonder, the Draymores, the Orchils, the Vendenning lady, the Lawns of Westlawn—" he paused, then deliberately—"and the 'Jack' Ruthvens. I forgot, Alixe, that you are now perfectly equipped to carry aloft the golden hod."
"Go on," she said, drawing a deep breath, but the fixed smile never altered.
"No," he said; "I can't talk. I thought I could, but I can't. Take that boy away from Mrs. Fane as soon as you can."
"I can't yet. You must go on. I ask your aid to carry this thing through. I—I am afraid of their ridicule. Could you try to help me a little?"
"If you put it that way, of course." And, after a silence, "What am I to say? What in God's name shall I say to you, Alixe?"
"Anything bitter—as long as you control your voice and features. Try to smile at me when you speak, Philip."