his presence that had allowed her to break down.  The Major’s atmosphere had held her taut so far.  Frank was conscious of a lump in his own throat as he stared out, helpless, first at the peaceful Sunday fields and then down at the shaking shoulders and the slender, ill-clad, writhed form of Gertie....  He did not know what to do ... he hoped the Major would not be back just yet.  Then he understood he must say something.

“Don’t cry,” he said.  “The Major—­”

She sat up on the instant in sudden consternation, her pretty, weak, sunburned face disfigured with tears, but braced for the moment by fear.

“No, no,” said Frank; “he isn’t coming yet; but—­”

Then she was down again, moaning and talking.  “Oh!...  Oh!...  I’m a wicked girl....  My mother!... and I never thought I should come to this!”

“Well, why don’t you chuck it?” said Frank practically.

“I can’t!...  I can’t!  I ...  I love him!”

That had not occurred to this young man as a conceivable possibility, and he sat silenced.  The church-bells pealed on; the sun sank a little lower; Gertie sobbed more and more gently; and Frank’s mind worked like a mill, revolving developments.  Finally, she grew quiet, lay still, and, as the bells gave place to one of their number, sat up.  She dabbed at her eyes with a handful of wet grass, passed her sleeve across them once or twice, and began to talk.

“I ...  I’m very silly, Frankie,” she said, “but I can’t help it.  I’m better now.  Don’t tell George.”

“Of course I shan’t!” said Frank indignantly.

“You’re a gentleman too,” said Gertie. (Frank winced a little, interiorly, at the “too.”) “I can see that you’re polite to a lady.  And I don’t know however I came to tell you.  But there it is, and no harm’s done.”

“Why don’t you leave him?” said Frank courageously.  A little wave of feeling went over her face.

“He’s a gentleman,” she said....  “No, I can’t leave him.  But it does come over you sometimes; doesn’t it?” (Her face wavered again.) “It was them bells, and the people and all.”

“Where’s your home?”

She jerked her head in a vague direction.

“Down Londonwards,” she said.  “But that’s all done with.  I’ve made my bed, and—­”

“Tell me plainly:  does he bully you?”

“Not to say bully,” she said.  “He struck me once, but never again.”

“Tell me if he does it again.”

A small, sly, admirative look came into her eyes.  “We’ll see,” she said.

* * * * *

Frank was conscious of a considerable sense of disappointment.  The thing had been almost touching just now, as the reserve first broke up, but it was a very poor little soul, it seemed to him, that had at last made its appearance. (He did not yet see that that made it all the more touching.) He did not quite see what to do next.  He was Christian enough to resent the whole affair; but he was aristocratic enough in his fastidiousness to think at this moment that perhaps it did not matter much for people of this sort.  Perhaps it was the highest ideal that persons resembling the Major and Gertie could conceive.  But her next remark helped to break up his complacency.