“No,” I faltered. “It’s only Mr. Francis, isn’t it?”
“Only Mr. Francis!” I heard my father repeat, with a groan. “Oh, Alice, lass—Alice! How could you?”
He staggered blindly towards the door. I rushed after him, piteously calling him back, but he pushed me off roughly and hurried out.
I heard him leave the house, but he did not go down the garden. Then, in a few minutes, every one of which seemed to me like an hour, the low voices at the gate ceased and my mother came slowly up the path towards the house.
I rushed downstairs and met her in the hall. She seemed half surprised, half angry, to see me.
“Philip,” she exclaimed, “I thought you were in bed long ago! What are you doing here?”
“I am frightened!” I sobbed out. “Father has been in my room watching you at the gate and he talked so strangely. He is very angry and he looks as though he were going to hurt someone.”
My mother leaned against the wall, every vestige of colour gone from her face, and her hand pressed to her side. She understood better than I did then.
“Where is he now?” she asked hysterically. “Quick, Philip—quick! Tell me!”
“He is gone,” I answered. “He went out by the front door and up the road.”