"But he couldn't!" he exclaimed agitatedly. "You said that he was playing the part of Jesus Christ. Our Lord wouldn't hit people in an hotel lounge. . . . "
"Our Lord!" Sylvia said contemptuously. "What do you know about our Lord? . . . Our Lord was a gentleman. . . . Christopher is playing at being our Lord calling on the woman taken in adultery. . . . He's giving me the social backing that his being my husband seems to him to call for."
A one-armed, bearded maître d'hôtel approached them through groups of arm-chairs arranged for tête-à-tête. He said:
"Pardon . . . I did not see madame at first. . . . " And displayed a card on a salver. Without looking at it, Sylvia said:
"Dîtes à ce monsieur . . . that I am occupied." The maître d'hôtel moved austerely away.
"But he'll smash me to pieces . . . " Perowne exclaimed. "What am I to do? . . . What the deuce am I to do?" There would have been no way of exit for him except across Tietjens' face.
With her spine very rigid and the expression of a snake that fixes a bird, Sylvia gazed straight in front of her and said nothing until she exclaimed:
"For God's sake leave off trembling. . . . He would not do anything to a girl like you. . . . He's a man. . . . " The wickerwork of Perowne's chair had been crepitating as if it had been in a railway car. The sound ceased with a jerk. . . . Suddenly she clenched both her hands and let out a hateful little breath of air between her teeth.
"By the immortal saints," she exclaimed, "I swear I'll make his wooden face wince yet."
