“Come, George,” she said; and to Mr. Marrapit, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Marrapit. I—”
It gave her furious George a vent. “Sorry! What are you sorry about? What have you done?” He roared over to Mrs. Major: “What other lies have you been telling?” He lashed himself at Mr. Marrapit. “Set the law on me? I jolly well hope you will. It will all come out then how you've behaved—how you've treated me. How you've betrayed—”
“Fletcher,” Mr. Marrapit interrupted, “remove that man. Take him out. Thrust him from the house.”
“Me?” said Mr. Fletcher. “Me thrust him? I'm a gardener, I am; not a—”
“Duty or dismissal,” pronounced Mr. Marrapit. “Take choice.” He turned to the window. “Come, Mrs. Major.”
George dashed for him. “You're not going till I've done with you!”
Violence was in his tone, passion in his face.
Alarmed, “Beware how you touch me!” called Mr. Marrapit; caught Mr. Fletcher, thrust him forward. “Grapple him!” cried Mr. Marrapit.
Mr. Fletcher was violently impelled against George; to save a fall clutched him. “Don't make a scene, Mr. George,” he implored.
George pushed him away. Mr. Fletcher trod back heavily upon Mr. Marrapit's foot. Mr. Marrapit screamed shrilly, plunged backwards into a cabinet, overturned it, sat heavily upon its debris.