'What girl is it now?' he asked, with affected carelessness, but furtive anxiety. 'The same one who has been staying at Bourhill?'
'No; something far worse—a dreadful low creature, who has been missing for some time. If Gladys were not as innocent as a baby she would know that she is a creature not fit to be spoken to. Really, George, that Miss Peck is utterly useless as a chaperon. I wish we knew what to do. It is one of the most exasperating and delicate affairs possible.'
'That girl!' repeated George, so blankly that his mother looked at him in sharp amazement. 'Heavens! then it's all up, mother.'
'All up? What on earth do you mean?'
'What I say. Is it a girl called Hepburn?' he asked half desperately, afraid to tell his mother, and yet feeling that she, and she alone, might help him.
'I believe so. Yes, Hepburn was certainly the name your aunt mentioned. Well, what then?'
'Simply that if Gladys has got in tow with this girl, and takes her down to Bourhill, I'm ruined.'
'How?'
There was eager inquiry, anguish even, in the question. Mrs. Fordyce was a vain and silly woman, but she had a mother's feelings, and suffered, as every mother must, over her son's dishonour.
'This girl was one of our hands, and—and—well, you understand, she had a pretty face, and I was foolish about her. I never meant anything serious; but, you see, if Gladys gets to know about it, she is so absurdly quixotic, she is quite fit enough not to speak to me again.'