“Mightn’t you risk it? Of course, truth is dangerous, but he’s very fond of you.”
“Won’t you help me?”
A heavy step and the sound of impatient pushing of furniture were heard from the next room.
“Gerald is getting tired of waiting,” said George.
“Won’t you do anything?” asked Neaera again, barely repressing a sob.
“Supposing I were willing to lie, where is a possible lie? How can I explain it?”
Timms knocked and entered. Gerald begged for a minute’s interview, on pressing business.
“In a moment,” said George. Then, turning to Neaera, he added brusquely, “Come, you must decide, Mrs. Witt.”
Neaera was no longer in a condition to decide anything. Tears were her ready refuge in time of trouble, and [she was picturesquely weeping]—for she possessed that rare gift—in the old leathern arm-chair.
“Will you leave it to me?” asked George. “I’ll do the best I can.”