“I hope you are not alluding to me, my dear,” said the major, who was given to saying stupid things by way of showing that he followed the thread of his wife's conversation.
Thornton chimed in with his deep laugh.
“That is one for you, Clavering. Perhaps one for me too. Anyhow, the curtain is going up and that saves us. Make room for me by you, Clytie, and tell me about what's going on.”
He edged in his chair between Clytie and Mrs. Clavering. The major lounged behind, with his hands in his pockets, very much bored. He was hoping to escape soon.
“Are you enjoying it?” whispered Thornton to Clytie.
“Moderately. It is a dull opera. And it is so unbearably hot.”
“It is not entrancingly interesting. Would you like to clear out after this act? I should.”
“And the Claverings?”
“They are a bit tired of it. Shall we all go back together to the hotel and have supper?”
“I'd sooner we were alone together, Thornton dear—this evening.”