"What is it, Molly?" he said, halting close beside her. "What is wrong, child?"
But Molly could not tell him. She turned towards him indeed, laying an imploring hand on his arm; but she kept her face hidden and uttered no word.
It was Charlie who plunged recklessly into the opening breach—plunged with a wholesale gallantry, regardless of everything but the moment's emergency.
"It's my doing, Fisher," he declared, his voice shaking a little. "I've been making an ass of myself. It was, partly your fault, too—yours and Bertie's. Let her go! I'll explain."
He was excited and he spoke quickly, but his eyes were very steady.
"Molly," he said, "you go upstairs! You've got to dress, you know, and you'll be late. I'll make it all right. Don't you worry yourself!"
Molly lifted a perfectly white face and looked at Fisher. She met his eyes, struggled with herself a moment, then with quivering lips turned slowly away. He did not try to stop her. He realised that Charlie must be disposed of before he attempted to extract an explanation from her.
Charlie sprang to the door, shut it hastily after her, and turned the key.
"Now!" he said, and, wheeling, marched straight back to Fisher and halted before him. "You want an explanation. You shall have one. You gave my show away this afternoon. You made her imagine that in taking me for an ordinary—or perhaps I should say a rather extraordinary—fool she had done me an injustice. She came in her sweetness and told me she was sorry. And I—forgot myself, and said things that made her cry. That is the whole matter."
"What did you say to her?" demanded Fisher.