"That's final?"
"Good God, yes! How many times must I tell you?"
"But—you're a civilian now. I associate with gentlemen-civilians. We all do."
"Gentlemen-rankers do not associate with the circles in which my daughter is accustomed to move, sir! But I will not prolong this discussion. I don't know you—I don't want to know you——" the old man, rising to a pinnacle of temper, leaped suddenly to his feet. "Who are you? Nobody! Where do you come from? God knows! Who the devil was your father? God only knows! Your mother? God knows! Oh, leave my house, sir, leave my house!"
Insult on insult, stonily endured, for Frances' sake; but this last tirade was more than Hector could stand. He forgot everything now—Frances—the future—everything but the fact that this ranting old bigot had cast unforgivable reflections on his dead father, his mother and his own personal honour. Standing rigid under the rain of abuse, he remained so now, but his fists were clenched and his eyes blazing in a deathly face.
"Major Edginton," he said hoarsely, "thank God, you're an old, helpless man or nothing in the world would save you now! You can take her away, you can do what you like, but you can't kill her love or mine! We'll beat you, in the end. I'm sorry you took things this way. The fault for tonight's breach lies with you. Remember that—always!"
"Leave my house!"
Hector turned on his heel and marched blindly out of the room.
Frances, on the landing upstairs, fearing the worst, was praying incoherently, desperately. And then—the door of the living-room swung open, was softly closed and she heard Hector's firm tread—one—two—three—four—go through the hall, out of the house into silence, awful, heart-breaking silence.
Those measured sounds beat on her brain. She never forgot them. They marked this fact: Hector had failed.