"No, no, please don't go near him. He's not nasty; he's all broken up. Oliver, he says he's in love with me himself."
He smiled at that. "Coming on, the young cousin, isn't he? But I'm not much surprised, Bernadette."
"He—he's upset me dreadfully. I didn't mean it to happen like this. It's too much for me. My nerves——"
She spoke all the time in quick agitated whispers. Oliver walked to the door, turned the key, and came back to her. He took one of her hands in his. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "He has been such a friend really. He trusted me so."
"Well, I suppose he'll take your advice now—your wise advice—and pack himself off to-morrow morning. Breakfast in bed, and you needn't see him."
"Judith will guess—I know she will. Oliver, I—I can't keep it up, with you here—not even though Arthur goes. I'm afraid of Judith now—even of Godfrey!"
"I'm certainly not going to leave you here, up against it, all by yourself." She was not to be trusted alone now. She had been shewn too vividly the side of the shield which it was his task to hide from her eyes—a task to which he alone was equal. Left to herself, she might go back on the whole thing, very likely!
"Take me away from it all now, won't you?" she asked.
"What now—to-night?" His eyes lit up humorously. "Sharp work, isn't it? Rather difficult to get out of the house to-night without risking—well, encounters! And you wouldn't like that."
"Can't you think of anything? I can't stand these next few days."