“What do you mean, Gerald?” said Neaera.
“You don’t know?” he asked, with a sneer. “What does a man ask for what he’s done? and what will a woman give? Will give? Has given?”
“Hold your tongue!” said George, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Neaera sat still, gazing at her lover with open eyes: only a little shudder ran over her.
“You duped me nicely between you,” Gerald continued, “me and all the world. No truth in it all! A mistake!—all a mistake! He found out—his mistake!” His voice rose almost to a shriek, and ended in a bitter laugh.
“You needn’t be a brute,” said George, coldly.
Gerald looked at him, then at Neaera, and uttered another sneering laugh. George was close by him now, seeming to watch every motion of his lips. Neaera rose from her chair, and flung herself at the feet of the angry man.
“Ah, Gerald, my love, have pity!” she wailed.
“Pity!” he echoed, drawing back, so that she fell on her face before him. “Pity! I might pity a thief, I might pity a liar, I have no pity for a——”
The sentence went unfinished, for, with a sudden motion, George closed on him, and flung him through the open door out of the room.