He waited for an answer, but none came. Only after a minute or so a little sound as of stifled sobbing came from behind the white screen.
“Lor, whatever is the matter?” cried Frewin aghast. “Is it me that’s upset ye, my dear? There, ye don’t need to come if ye don’t want to. Any girl can say a feller nay. There’s no ’arm done yet.”
But still she cried on.
“I’d come right enough,” faltered she at last, between the sobs. “But—but there is ’arm done.”
And then suddenly she dried her eyes, and looked up at him with frank, fearless gaze.
“Your mother said as I’d been kind to ye, Mr. Frewin,” said she. “But I ’ain’t been—for I’ve behaved bad to ye. Yes, I ’ave. And ye said as you weren’t goin’ to be fooled again. And—and I like ye too well to fool ye, and that’s truth. And—and so I’d rather tell ye as I ’ave fooled ye already.”
His face went white, and he stared at her.
“Fooled me!” echoed he. “Not a bit of it!”
“Yes, I ’ave,” insisted she doggedly. “The girls said ye was a rude, surly chap as wouldn’t throw a word to any of us, and I swore I’d make you. And then Charlie Lambert dared me to, and wagered me a pair o’ gloves it’d be no go. It was just a lark,” said she half defiantly, but then added, with a tell-tale throb of the voice, “though you can’t say as I’ve ever done it.”
Frewin did not smile, the unconscious humour of the phrase did not seem to strike him; he was upset.