“You have not walked here?” exclaimed Ferdy, as though Half Moon Street were situated in the most remote quarter of the town.
“Yes, for what else could I do? Oh, Gil, promise me, promise me — all of you! — that you won’t give me up to Sherry!”
Three pairs of eyes were riveted to her face. “Not — not give you up — Kitten, have you gone mad?” stammered Mr Ringwood.
“No,” she replied, wringing her hands. “Indeed, I am not mad, Gil, though I shall be, or die, perhaps, if he finds me!”
Ferdy’s jaw dropped. He swallowed once or twice and then said in a soothing tone: “Thinking of someone else, Kitten! Not Sherry! Very good sort of a fellow, my cousin Sherry. Thought you liked him!”
George, who had been standing gripping the back of a chair, demanded in a voice which boded ill for the absent Viscount: “What has Sherry done to you?”
“He has not done anything yet. That is why I had to run away, to prevent him! I could not bear it, I could not!”
“By God!” George swore, his brilliant eyes beginning to smoulder. “Only tell me!”
Mr Ringwood emerged from his stupefaction at this point. He poured himself out some brandy, tossed it off, and set down the glass with the air of a man who was now competent to deal with any emergency. “Hold your tongue, George!” he commanded tersely. “So Sherry’s home, is he, Kitten?”
She nodded, two large tears rolling down her cheeks.