He made a little gesture of impatience.
“Of course we won't ask them if you don't want to. But then we must stay this thing out.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the mass of heads in the opposite tiers, vague in the dimness, and drummed with his fingers on the rails of his chair.
“Sh!” said Mrs. Clavering. “That's one of your old tricks. You never seem to think that people have nerves.”
Clytie caught the words, although they were whispered. She turned her head round quickly and stared at the stage for the rest of the act.
When it was over Mrs. Clavering solved the question of departure.
“I think we all want to go,” she said, rising. “My husband is suffering acutely, and yours I know is not very musical. When shall we see you again, Mrs. Hammerdyke? Will you come and dine with us some evening, quietly—when we can talk better? I'll let you know what evenings we are free. Will that do? That is your wife's cloak, not mine, Mr. Hammerdyke.”
A few minutes later Thornton and Clytie were driving back to their hotel in the pleasant Paris victoria. It seemed a superb night. A slight breeze had risen, and the leaves in the Champs Elysées rustled pleasantly. Clytie leaned back with a sense of relief, physical and moral. They had both been rather silent since they left the opera house.
“Don't let us go in,” said Clytie suddenly. “Let us drive about a little, along the quays—anywhere.”
“I was just going to suggest it,” said Thornton.