Willie began anew, groping in his tormented brain for something to dispel the silence. The result was a dazed query:
"By the way, my dear, what's the opera to-night?"
"Carmen," she said.
He brightened. "Oh, of course. That's the opera where the fellow kills the girl who betrays him, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"With a knife like this, eh?" And with a fierce absent-mindedness he made a quick slash in the air. The knife was small and curved a little, and it fitted his hand like a dagger. He chuckled enviously. "Ah, he was the wise boy, that Don José. He knew how to treat faithless women. He knew how to talk to 'em. A knife in the back—that's all they can understand."
Crofts was too anxiously trying to avoid spilling a drop of the wine he was pouring to heed the warning gestures of Persis. She felt that the breaking-point of Willie's self-control had been reached. She must dismiss the audience. She spoke hastily:
"Willie, my dear—my dear! Won't you send for some champagne—or sherry. I hate this red wine, and, besides, we've skipped the roast."
"Oh yes," Willie agreed, with abrupt calm. "Crofts, down in the—er—wine-cellar in the farthest end—you'll find laid away by itself one bottle of—er—L'Âme de Rheims—one bottle, the last of its ancient and—er—honorable name. Bring that here."
As Crofts stumbled out on his long journey, Willie commented, ominously: