“You pledge yourself to the month?” asked his uncle.
“Yes, to the month, and I dare say I shall be able to find the day.”
“And when will you go to Peckton?”
“Saturday. I can’t possibly before.”
The interview took place on the Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday Gerald went to lay the state of affairs before Neaera.
Neaera was petulant, scornful, almost flippant. More than all this, she was mysterious.
“Mr. George Neston has his reasons,” she said. “He will not withdraw his accusation. I know he will not.”
“My dearest, George is a first-rate fellow, as honourable as the day. If he finds—rather, when he finds——”
All Neaera said was, “Honourable!” But she put a great deal into that one word. “You dear, simple fellow!” she went on, “you have no suspicions of anybody. But let him take care how he persists.”
More than this could not be got out of her, but she spoke freely about her own supposed misdoings, pouring a flood of ridicule and bitterness on George’s unhappy head.