'It is a tangled skein,' he said. 'You'd much better marry me. I won't expect you to care for me.'
'Don't be ridiculous——'
There came a heavy thudding at the door, and Clara jumped nervously to her feet. Verschoyle opened the door, and Charles swept in like a whirlwind. His long hair hung in wisps about his face, his hat was awry, his cuffs hung down over his hands, his full tie was out over his waistcoat, and in both hands he held outstretched his walking stick and a crumpled piece of paper. He dropped the stick and smoothed the paper out on the table, and, in an almost sobbing voice, he said,—
'This has come. It is a wicked plot to ruin me. She demands a part in The Tempest or she will inform the police.... O God, chicken, that was a bad day when you made me marry you.'
Verschoyle picked up his stick and, beside himself with exasperated fury, laid about the unhappy Charles's shoulders and loins crying,—
'You hound, you cur, you filthy coward! You should have told her! You should have told her! You knew she was only a child!'
Charles roared lustily, but made no attempt to defend himself, although he was half a head taller than Verschoyle and twice as heavy. He merely said,—
'Oo-oh!' when a blow got home, and waited until the onslaught was over. Then he rubbed himself down and wriggled inside his clothes.
Clara stood aghast. It was horrible to her that this should have happened. Blows were as useless as argument with Charles.... He had done what he had done out of kindliness and childish obedience and, looking to motives rather than to results, could see no wrong in it.
Verschoyle was at once ashamed of himself.