“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “And don’t, oh, don’t! You make me feel a brute, and yet I couldn’t help myself. I’ll tell him—I’ll go and tell him—” He was flying to the door, impelled thereto not only by the woman’s tears but by the yells of the small child, who was on his feet by Miss Merriman’s knee, screaming in sympathy after the manner of his kind.
Miss Merriman recovered herself sufficiently to speak.
“No,” she cried imperiously. “Don’t tell him anything. You’re not to tell him anything. Let him think what he likes until—”
“Until what?”
“Never mind.”
She waved her hand in farewell without looking at him, and Bayre made his way reluctantly enough upstairs, where he found Southerley in waiting on the half-landing.
“No good, of course?” said the big man, trembling like a leaf.
Bayre shook his head.
“Any reason?”
“No. Sorry. I did my best.”