It slowly dawned on him that she was defending herself. He saw himself shamed among his fellows. There had never been a scandal at The Dyke in his time. He said: ‘Good God! Good God!’ then helped himself to another glass of whisky and took a stiff gulp. ‘Well, I never thought it of you,’ was all he could say. He poured out another tot.
A sudden gust of anger swept over Marion. Scarcely knowing what she did, she picked up the cut-glass whisky decanter and sent it crashing into the fire. The flames roared up the chimney; blue tongues of lighted spirit ran out over the hearthrug.
‘Marion! My God, you’re mad!’ he cried. ‘You’ll set the house afire! What do you think you’re doing?’
He snatched a rug from the sofa and went down on his knees stifling the flame. She burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He stared at her, frightened. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he cried.
‘I don’t know,’ she said weakly. ‘I felt I must break something. What an awful mess!’ The outburst had sobered her, and more than that the sight of her father’s scared and innocent face.
‘It’s all right now,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch a cloth from the kitchen.’
He looked so bewildered that she couldn’t help laughing at him.
‘I’m damned if I can make you out,’ he said.
‘Of course you can’t. You’ve not the least idea. . .’
‘Then it’s all right?’ he said solemnly.