“It’s mean—mean and heartless!”
George rose. “Really, it’s no use going on with this,” said he. And, making a slight bow, he turned towards the door.
“I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean it,” cried Neaera. “But I am out of my mind. Ah, have pity on me!” And she flung herself on the floor, right in his path.
George felt very absurd. He stood, his hat in one hand, his stick and gloves in the other, while Neaera clasped his legs below the knee, and, he feared, was about to bedew his boots with her tears.
“This is tragedy, I suppose,” he thought. “How the devil am I to get away?”
“I have never had a chance,” Neaera went on, “never. Ah, it is hard! And when at last——” Her voice choked, and George, to his horror, heard her sob.
He nervously shifted his feet about, as well as Neaera’s eager clutches would allow him. How he wished he had not come!
“I cannot bear it!” she cried. “They will all write about me, and jeer at me; and Gerald will cast me off. Where shall I hide?—where shall I hide? What was it to you?”
Then she was silent, but George heard her stifled weeping. Her clasp relaxed, and she fell forward, with her face on the floor, in front of him. He did not seize his chance of escape.