“Oh, don't make a fuss about that, Mary,” he cried irritably. “It's nothing. Master Bob won't be able to see for a month.”
“Oh, George, why did you do it?”
Then the tremendous young man flamed. “Why did I do it? 'Pon my soul, Mary, I simply don't understand you sometimes. You've made me stand by and see you insulted for a month, and then I see him catch hold of you, and you run, and I go and thrash him, and you say, 'Why did you do it?' Do it? Do it? Why, good Lord, what would you have had me do—apologise for you?”
She turned away, dropped his hand.
My unfortunate George groaned aloud: sprang to her. “Mary, darling, dearest, you know I didn't mean that.”
She kept her face from him; her pretty shoulders heaved.
He cried in misery, striving to see her face: “What a brute I am! What a brute! Mary, Mary, you know I didn't mean that.”
She gasped: “You ge-get angry so quick.”
“I know, I know. I'm not fit—I couldn't help—Mary, do look up.”
She swallowed a sob; gave him her little hand.