“That is another matter,” said he, lowering his eyes. “For the sake of an answer, let us say that I wanted to test his devotion to his art.”
“We can say it as much as we please, but I don’t believe it.”
“I will ask you, Clementina,” said he, courteously, “as a great personal favour to let it pass at that.”
“All right,” said Clementina.
He went on with his dinner. Presently another thing struck him. He was to find a plaguey lot of things to strike him in connection with his lunacy.
“If Tommy was penniless,” said he, “will you explain how he has managed to take this expensive holiday in France.”
“Look here, let us talk of something else,” she replied. “I’m sick of Tommy.”
Visions of Tommy’s whooping joy, of Etta’s radiance; when they should hear the astounding news, floated before her. She could hear him telling the chit of a girl to put on her orange-blossoms and go out with him at once and get married. She could hear Etta say: “Darling Clementina, do run out and buy me some orange-blossoms.” Much the two innocents cared for darling Clementina! There were times when she really did not know whether she wanted to take them both in her arms in a great splendid hug, or to tie them up together in a sack and throw them into the Seine.
“I’m sick of Tommy,” she declared.
But the normal brain of the cultivated man had begun to work.