“Look here, Madelaine, it’s time you were at home. Come along with me.”
Madelaine flushed as she rose; and her lips parted as if to speak, but Leslie interposed.
“Excuse me, Miss Van Heldre, I do not think you need reply to such a remark as that.”
“Who are you?” roared Harry, bursting into a fit of passion that was schoolboy-like in its heat and folly. “Say another word, sir, and I’ll pitch you off the cliff into the sea.”
“Here, steady, old fellow, steady!” whispered Pradelle; and he laid his hand on his companion’s arm.
“You mind your own business, Vic; and as for you—”
He stopped, for he could say no more. Leslie had quite ignored his presence, turning his back and offering his arm to Madelaine.
“Shall I walk home with you, Miss Van Heldre?” he said.
For answer, and without so much as looking at Harry Vine, Madelaine took the offered arm, and Pradelle tightened his hold as the couple walked away.
The grasp was needless, for Harry’s rage was evaporating fast, and giving place to a desolate sensation of despair.