But that embrace of her had warmed Bob’s passions.
Springing up, he caught her as she fumbled with the
latch; twisted her to him.
For a moment they struggled, he grasping her wrists
and pressing towards her.
With the intention of encircling her waist he slipped
his hold. But panic made her the quicker.
Her outstretched arms held him at bay for a breathing
space; then as he broke them down she dealt him a swinging
blow upon the face that staggered him back a step,
his hand to his cheek.
Mrs. Chater opened the door.
“Oh, he kissed me! He kissed me!”
Mary cried.
Bob said very slowly, “You—infernal—little—liar.”
Mrs. Chater glowered upon Mary with cruel eyes.
“It was a fortunate thing,” she said coldly,
“that a headache brought me home. Go to
your room, miss.”
We may hurry across the bridge.
Excursions In Love.
Saturday was the day immediately following this scene.
George, on a ’bus carrying him towards Regent’s
Park, was in spirit at one with the gay freshness
that gave this September morning a spring-like air.
A week of torrid heat, in which London crawled, groaned,
and panted, had been wiped from the memory by an over-night
thunderstorm that burst the pent-up dams of heaven
and loosed cool floods upon the staring streets.
No misty drizzle nor gusty shower it had been, but
a strong, straight, continuous downpour, seemingly
impelled by tremendous pressure. Dusty roofs,
dusty streets, dusty windows it had scoured and scrubbed
and polished; torrents had poured down the gutters—whenever
temporarily the pressure seemed to relax, the ears
of wakeful Londoners were sung to by the gurgle and
rush of frantic streams driving before them the collected
debris of many days.
Upon this morning, in the result, a tempest might
have swept the town and found never a speck of dust
to drive before it. The very air had been washed
and sweetened; and London’s workers, scurrying
to and from their hives, seemed also to have benefited
by some attribute of the downpour that tinted cheeks,
sparkled eyes, and, rejuvenating limbs, gave to them
a new sprightliness of movement.
George, from his ’bus, caught many a bright
eye under a jaunty little hat; gave each back its
gleam from the depths of gay lightness that filled
his heart. Nearing the Park he alighted; made
two purchases. From a confectioner bun-corn for
David and Angela, those ramping steeds; from a florist
the reddest rose that an exhaustive search of stock
could discover.
Mary had from him such a rose at their every meeting.
She might not wear it back to Palace Gardens—it
would not flourish beneath Mrs. Chater’s curiosity;
but while they were together she would tuck it in
her bosom, and George tenderly would bear it home and
set it in a vase before him to lend him inspiration
as he worked.
