“I want to say something before you go.”

“I think we had better say no more about it!”

By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself from speaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushed to his lips.

“I think we will!” he said between his teeth.

Maud’s anger became tinged with surprise.  Now that the first shock of the wretched episode was over, the calmer half of her mind was endeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George’s behaviour had been but a momentary lapse, and that a man may lose his head for one wild instant, and yet remain fundamentally a gentleman and a friend.  She had begun to remind herself that this man had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two before had actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment.  When she heard him call to her to stop, she supposed that his better feelings had reasserted themselves; and she had prepared herself to receive with dignity a broken, stammered apology.  But the voice that had just spoken with a crisp, biting intensity was not the voice of remorse.  It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, who was commanding—­not begging—­her to stop and listen to him.

“Well?” she said again, more coldly this time.  She was quite unable to understand this attitude of his.  She was the injured party.  It was she, not he who had trusted and been betrayed.

“I should like to explain.”

“Please do not apologize.”

George ground his teeth in the gloom.

“I haven’t the slightest intention of apologizing.  I said I would like to explain.  When I have finished explaining, you can go.”

“I shall go when I please,” flared Maud.

This man was intolerable.

“There is nothing to be afraid of.  There will be no repetition of the—­incident.”

Maud was outraged by this monstrous misinterpretation of her words.

“I am not afraid!”

“Then, perhaps, you will be kind enough to listen.  I won’t detain you long.  My explanation is quite simple.  I have been made a fool of.  I seem to be in the position of the tinker in the play whom everybody conspired to delude into the belief that he was a king.  First a friend of yours, Mr. Byng, came to me and told me that you had confided to him that you loved me.”

Maud gasped.  Either this man was mad, or Reggie Byng was.  She choose the politer solution.

“Reggie Byng must have lost his senses.”

“So I supposed.  At least, I imagined that he must be mistaken.  But a man in love is an optimistic fool, of course, and I had loved you ever since you got into my cab that morning . . .”

“What!”

“So after a while,” proceeded George, ignoring the interruption, “I almost persuaded myself that miracles could still happen, and that what Byng said was true.  And when your father called on me and told me the very same thing I was convinced.  It seemed incredible, but I had to believe it.  Now it seems that, for some inscrutable reason, both Byng and your father were making a fool of me.  That’s all.  Good night.”