“Ah, Gertie, going to bed?”
“Yes, George. Good-night.”
“Good-night, pet.”
Before she could avoid the embrace, he had taken her in his arms, and kissed her, sending the blood flushing to her temples as she ran out and upstairs, fighting hard to keep back the sobs which struggled for utterance.
As she reached her own room she ran to the washstand to bathe her lips and burning cheeks, seeking to get rid of the foul odour of tobacco and spirits which seemed to cling to them. Then she flung herself upon her knees by her bedside, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly for the sweet illusions of her life, in which a brave, frank young hero from the West had stood out so prominently, seemed to be fading away slowly, one by one.
Chapter Twelve.
Late for Dinner.
“Ah, Mrs Denton! What have we here?”