“But he expects it, George.  And what am I to do?  He’s all alone.  I can’t leave him all alone, can I?”

George burst out: 

“I tell you what it is.  Marguerite.  You’re too good-natured.  That’s what it is.  You’re too good-natured.  And it’s a very bad thing.”

Tears came into her eyes; she could not control them.  She was grieved by his remark.

“I’m not, George, truly.  You must remember father’s been through a lot this last week.  So have I.”

“I know!  I know!  I admit all that.  But you’re too good-natured, and I’ll stick to it.”

She was smiling again.

“You only think that because you’re fond of me.  Nobody else would say it, and I’m not.  Help me to lift this trunk on to the chest.”

While the daylight withdrew, and the smell of the lamp strengthened and then faded, and the shadows cast by the lamp-rays grew blacker, she went on rapidly with her packing, he serving her at intervals.  They said little.  His lower lip fell lower and lower.  The evening was immensely, horribly different from what he had expected and hoped for.  He felt once more the inescapable grip of destiny fastening upon him.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he asked, after a long time.

“I told father I should be back at a quarter-past nine.”

This statement threw George into a condition of total dark disgust.  He made no remark.  But what remarks he could have made—­sarcastic, bitter, unanswerable!  Why indeed in the name of heaven should she promise her father to be back at a quarter-past nine, or at a quarter-past anything?  Was she a servant?  Had she no rights?  Had he himself, George, no rights?

A little before nine Agg arrived.  Marguerite was fastening the trunk.

“Now be sure, Agg,” said Marguerite.  “Don’t forget to hang out the Carter Paterson card at the end of the alley to-morrow morning.  I must have these things at home to-morrow night for certain.  The labels are on.  And here’s twopence for the man.”

“Do I forget?” retorted Agg cheerfully.  “By the way, George, I want to talk to you.”  She turned to Marguerite and repeated in quite a different voice:  “I want to talk to him, dear, to-night.  Do, let him stay.  Will you?”

Marguerite gave a puzzled assent.

“I’ll call after I’ve taken Marguerite to Alexandra Grove, Agg—­on my way back to the club.”

“Oh no, you won’t!” said Agg.  “I shall be gone to bed then.  Look at that portrait and see how I’ve worked.  My family’s concerned about me.  It wants me to go away for a holiday.”

George had not till then noticed the portrait at all.

“But I must take Marguerite along to the Grove,” he insisted.  “She can’t go alone.”

“And why can’t she go alone?  What sort of a conventional world do you think you live in?  Don’t girls go home alone?  Don’t they come in alone?  Don’t I?  Anybody would think, to listen to some people, that the purdah flourished in Chelsea.  But it’s all pretence.  I don’t ask for the honour of a private interview with you every night.  You’ve both of you got all your lives before you.  And for once in a way Marguerite’s going out alone.  At least, you can take her to the street, I don’t mind that.  But don’t be outside more than a minute.”