His flow checked, waiting an impulse from her.
She was but capable of a little “Oh!”—the
crest of a gasp.
He misread her emotion. “Has it all been
pretence, your keeping me from you like this?
I believe it has. But now that you know you will
be kind. Tell me. Speak.”
Encouraged by her silence he took her hand.
That touch acted as a cold blast upon her fevered
emotions. Now she was calm.
She shook off his hand. “Have you done?”
The tone more than the question warned him.
“Well?” he said; sullen wrath gathering.
“Well, never speak to me again.”
“You won’t be friends?”
“Friends! With you!”
Her meaning—that he had lost—stung
him; her tone—that she despised him—was
a finger in the wound.
He gripped her arm. “You little fool!
How are you going to choose? If I want to be
friends with you, how are you going to stop it?
By God, if you want to be enemies it will be the worse
for you. If I can’t be friends with you
at home, I’ll get you turned out and I’ll
make you be friends outside.”
She was trying to twist her arm from his grasp.
He gripped closer. “No, I don’t mean
that. I love you—that’s why I
talk so when you rebuff me. I’ll not hurt
you. We shall—I will be friends.”
His right arm held her. He slipped his left around
her, drew her to him, and with his lips had brushed
her cheek before she was aware of his intention.
The insult swept her free of every thought but its
memory. By a sudden motion she slipped from his
grasp and to her feet; faced him.
“You beast!” she cried. “You
beast!”
He half rose; made a half grab at her.
She stepped back a pace; something in her action reminded
him of that stinging blow she had dealt him in the
library; he dropped back to his seat and she turned
and fled up the path whither Angela and David had
toddled.
It was while Bob sat gazing after her, indeterminate,
that he felt a hand from behind the seat upon his
shoulder; looked up to see a tall young man, fresh
faced, but fury-browed, regarding him.
“What’s your name?” asked George.
“What the devil’s that to do with you?”
The tone of the first question had been of passion
restrained. The passion broke now from between
George’s clenched teeth, flamed in his eyes.
He tightened his grip upon the other’s shoulder
so that he pinched the flesh.
“A lot to do with me,” he cried.
“Is it Chater?”
“What if it is? Let me go, damn you!”
“Let you go! I’ve been itching for
you for weeks! What have you been saying to Miss
Humfray?”
“Damn you! Take off your hand! She’s
a friend of yours, is she?”
My furious George choked: “Engaged to me.”
Further bit upon his passion he could not brook.
He brought his free hand down with a crash upon the
face twisted up at him; relaxed his hold; ran round
the seat--those brown hands clenched.
