“Dearest, I should have told you at the beginning, but I could not. I wanted to wait until I knew. I have not seen her yet this morning.”
My startled George was becoming pale. “Knew what? Seen whom? What do you mean?”
She said, “No, I won't tell you. I won't spoil all this beautiful morning we have spent. I will wait till next week.”
“Mary, what do you mean? Wait till next week? No. You must tell me now. How could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some trouble? What has happened? You must tell. You must. I insist.”
“Ah, I will.” Her agitation, as her mind cast back over the events of the previous night, was enhanced by the suddenness of the change from the sunshine in which she had been disporting to the darkness that now swept upon her. She was as a girl who, singing along a country lane, is suddenly confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp.
She said, “You know that young Mr. Chater?”
Dark imaginings clouded upon George's brow. “Yes,” he said. “Yes; well—?”
“Last night—” And then she gave him the history of events.
This simple George of mine writhed beneath it.
It was a poison torturing his system, twisting his brow, knotting his hands. Her presence, when she finished, did not stay his cry beneath his rackings: he was upon his feet. “By Gad,” he cried, “I'll thrash the life out of him! The swine! By Gad, I'll kill him!”