“You beast!” said Geraldine.
Serena stared at her in blank astonishment. It was incredible that the cold and correct Miss Moriarty should have said that.
“I’m surprised—” she began, but Geraldine would not listen.
“A beast!” she said again. “You will have him in here, too!”
“I won’t!” declared Serena.
“Yes, you will!” said Geraldine.
She stood holding the stained scarf against her heart, and it was as if she held him, as if she were sheltering and defending the man who had done so gallant a thing for her. Wounded and suffering, his one thought had been for her—to protect her good name, to bring her safely home. He was helpless now, and it was her turn.
Nothing else mattered. All her stern reserve, her stiff-necked dignity, her pride, were flung to the winds. She was ready to fight for him, to defy all the world for his sake.
“Send some one out for him at once!” she said. “He’s been shot—and I know who shot him. It was your—”
“Hush! Not so loud, you horrible girl!”