Lady Clifton-Wyatt’s eyes as they ran simply expressed a disgust that she put into words with her usual frankness:
“Don’t be more idiotic than necess’ry, my dear boy; there are secret codes, you know.”
“S-secret codes I know? Secret codes the Germans know––that’s what you mean, sweetheart. I don’t know one little secret, but Huns–– Do you know how many thousand Germans there are loose in England––do you?”
Lady Clifton-Wyatt shook her head impatiently. “I haven’t the faintest notion. Far more than I wish, I’m sure.”
“I hope so, unless you wish fifty thousand. And God knows how many more. And I’m not alluthing to Germans in disguise, naturalized Germans––quinine pills with a little coating. I’m not referring to you, of course, Sir Joseph. Greates’ respect for you. Ever’body has. You have done all you could to overcome the fatal error of your parents. You’re a splen’id gen’l’man. Your ’xception proves rule. Even Germans can’t all be perf’ly rotten.”
“Thank you, Marquess, thank you,” said Sir Joseph, with a natural embarrassment.
Marie Louise noted the slight difference between the English “Thank you” and Sir Joseph’s “Thang gyou.”
Then Lady Webling’s eyes went around the table, catching up the women’s eyes and forms, and she led them in a troop from the embarrassing scene. She brought the embarrassment with her to the drawing-room, where the women sat about smoking miserably and waiting for the men to come forth and take them home.