George put out the other leg—crime-steeped legs that quivered. He had looked for a space between awaking and meeting his uncle in which to prepare his plans, rehearse his words. This abrupt rousing stampeded his senses. He quavered “Wher—where can she be?”
Mr. Marrapit flung up his arms. “Oh, my God! If I knew that would I be here? Up! Up! Join the searchers in the garden.”
George pushed a criminal leg into his trousers. Conscience made thumbs of his fingers, trembled his joints. He hopped frantically, thrusting with the other foot.
“Dance!” Mr. Marrapit moaned bitterly. “Dance! That is right! Why do you not sing also? This is nothing to you! Dance on! Dance on!”
George cannoned the wash-stand. “It is something to me. I can hardly believe it!”
“Is sorrow expressed in a gavotte? Grief in a hornpipe?”
“I'm not dancing. My damned bags are stuck!”
Mr. Marrapit wrung his hands. “Discard them! Discard them! Must decency imperil the Rose?”
With a tremendous kick George thrust in past the obstruction.
“They're on now—my slippers—coat—what shall I do?”