Mr. Marrapit had raged on to Mr. Fletcher, yet writhing.
“You hear that?” he had cried. “Dolt! You are responsible for this!” He touched the blood-flecked side, the abrased ear; clasped close the Rose; called for warm water.
Mr. Fletcher clapped a hand to his wound as shakily he rose.
“I go to rescue his cat!” he said; “I'm near worried to death by 'ounds. I'm a dolt. I'm responsible. It's 'ard,—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a dog muzzle.”
A dimness clouded Margaret's beautiful eyes as this bitter picture—she had watched it—was again reviewed. She murmured “Oh, Bill!”; stretched her soft arms to the night; moved her pretty lips in a message to her lover; snuggled between the sheets and made melancholy her bedfellow.
IV.
By seven she was up and in the fresh garden. George was before her.
She cried brightly: “Why, how early you are!” and ran to him—very pretty in her white dress: at her breast a rose, the poem fluttering in her hand.
“Yes; for once before you.”
George's tone did not give back her mood, purposely keyed high. She played on it again: “Turning a new leaf?”