So Hugh, though he had little understanding of women, felt yet that things were not as they should be and as Marjorie of course could not possibly be to blame, it must be Tom Arundel, and to Tom he addressed himself forcibly.
Tom listened resentfully. “Look here, Alston, I don’t know what the lay is,” he said. “I don’t know what’s the matter. I am not conscious of having offended her. If I have, I am sorry—why goo-law, I worship the ground the little thing treads on!”
And Hugh, looking Tom straight in the eyes, knew that he was speaking the truth.
“Good!” he said. “I’m glad to hear it, and she’s worth it!”
“And—and it hurts me, by George it does, Alston,” Tom said, “the way she cuts up rough with me. And now you go for me bald-headed, as if I’d behaved like a pig to her. Why goo-law, man, I’d lie down and let her jump on me. I’d go and drown myself if it would cause her any—any amusement.”
There was a distinct suggestion of tears in the boy’s eyes, and Hugh turned hastily away.
“Marjorie dear,” he was saying a while later, “what’s wrong? Tell me all about it. Tell your old friend Hugh, and see if he can put things right.”
“There is nothing—nothing wrong, Hugh!” Marjorie gasped. “Nothing! Nothing in the world!” And she belied her statement by suddenly sobbing and hiding her face against his shoulder.
“There, there—there!” he said, feeling as awkward as a man must feel when a woman cries to him. He patted her shoulder with the uncomfortable feeling that he was behaving like an idiot.
“It—it is nothing!” she gasped. “Hugh, it is really nothing!”