Babe by Joan Smith

much choice in the matter.
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    The continuing of the play, and perhaps Lady Withers’ tact, which found her cousin a seat between herself and the wall, prevented any embarrassing questions till the play was finished. Before leaving, Clivedon found a moment’s privacy to speak to his sister.
    “I’ll take the hoyden home in my carriage. She’s apt to hit you and Joe on the head and nip off on you. Take Miss Millington with you, will you? I want to find out what Babe’s been up to exactly, and rehearse her for your party. I don’t have to tell you what to say.”
    It was not till they all left that Lady Barbara received a few congratulations from passers-by in the lobby. How had the story spread so quickly? But then, Babe’s doings were always one of the major subjects of gossip.
    As she walked quickly to the door, with Clivedon’s arm firmly holding her arm, Lady Angela called to her. “Congratulations, Lady Barbara, on your engagement. Now I expect you will go to Austria with your cousin and her new groom. Is it to be a double wedding?”
    Barbara was reduced to near incoherence. All through the last act she had been asking herself why she had done it, why she had come to this play, why she had sought Gentz’s escort, why he had proclaimed himself her fiancé, and most ominously of all, what would Clivedon do? That his retribution would be severe she knew very well. He sat like a stone Jehovah throughout the play, not looking at her, but with anger oozing from his silent form, settling about her like a fog, almost palpable in its intensity. Blinking at Angela, she answered, “No. Oh no.”
    “That was a joke, of course,” Clivedon answered for her, very firmly.
    “A joke? Why, it is the on-dit of the evening. I have heard it discussed a dozen times since leaving my box,” Angela answered. Then she walked along by Clivedon, saying in a low voice, “What a scandal! It would be best to give a show of indifference. I warned you how it would be. Is there anything I can do to help?”
    “If you can think of anything to quell the scandal, you are more ingenious than I,” he replied, hastening his steps, till Angela fell back to rejoin her own party.
    His carriage was waiting. He saw his charge in and took a seat opposite, while she sat holding on to the edge of the banquette, waiting for his attack. He was too upset to oblige her. “We’ll speak later. You are to behave at the party as though nothing has happened. Don’t apologize to anyone. Lady Graham knew you were going, gave her permission. We must hope folks are simple-minded enough to believe that. If this engagement is mentioned, you laugh. It is a joke. You understand?”
    “Yes.”
    For half a block they went on in silence. “Clivedon?” she said in a hesitant voice.
    “Yes?”
    “Why don’t you say something.”
    “We’ll talk later.”
    “I don’t want to wait. I want to get it over with now. Shout at me.”
    “I don’t want you to arrive with red eyes.”
    “I’m sorry I did it,” she offered.
    “A little late for regrets.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I am going to discuss it later. Be quiet.”
    She sank into silence. She had done much worse than this in her life, and never felt the least compunction. But then others had not treated her stunts so seriously, made them a matter of disgrace.
    If the play had been bad, and it had been perfectly horrid, the party was infinitely worse. There were the curious eyes prying, not the laughing eyes of Fannie’s friends, but the censorious gaze of people from a different milieu. There were the sly questions, and there was Lady Withers, trying to smooth the waters and keep guests at bay, while keeping up some appearance of mingling. All her reserves of tact were called upon. Worst of all, there was Clivedon being so polite and solicitous, with always that menacing light in his eyes, that glare that ordered her to smile and talk, while her head reeled with what was