‘Oh, her . . .’ said Abner, with a laugh.
‘Don’t you put me off!’ she cried. ‘Don’t put me off! It’s not for me, it’s for his children. You see, I know, so you’d best tell me.’
‘I can tell you one thing,’ he said. ‘George ain’t been with Susie Hind to-night.’
She clenched her hands furiously. ‘You’re only telling me lies . . . lies. How do you know? How do you know?’
‘How do I know? I like that! I know because I’ve been with her myself.’
He thought it was a fine and brutal thing to say. With the same words he had rescued his friend from an awkward suspicion and proclaimed the thing that he had been wanting to shout to the stars on his way home. He had been burning to share his triumph with some one. George would have heard it if he hadn’t been so drunk. Now it was out; he had got it off his chest; he stood there smiling and triumphant, wondering what she could say next.
‘So you needn’t vex yourself about poor old George,’ he said.
For a second she stared at him. The white anger died out of her face. She became suddenly red. Her clenched fingers opened and she clutched at the table. Then she gave a sudden, choking gasp, and spoke:—
‘You . . .’ she said, ‘you . . . ! Oh, I shouldn’t have thought it of you!’
‘What’s up with you now?’ he said, good-humouredly. Her body was shaken with a fit of sobbing and she left him staring in the candlelight.