“Good-by!” she said.
But George, hypnotized by the touch of her fingers, felt quite unable to say good-by. He knew that immediately beyond the little lady two pairs of eyes, scorpion in their burning intensity, were directed upon him. He knew that anything he said or did now would be used in evidence against him, but it was asking too much of human nature to let her go like that. He didn’t know her plans, he didn’t even know her address! A mine had been sprung under his feet by the forces of injustice; but he would never be able to forgive himself if he lost her without making a sign.
The forces of injustice were ruthlessly dominating the scene. But what did it matter? What did anything matter? This was Fate’s hour. If at such a moment he failed to show himself a man it would tell heavily against him in the ultimate assize.
“I’ll come to the station and see you off!” The daring of the speech was incredible; at least, so it seemed in the ear of two of the ladies. In the ear of the lady to whom it was addressed, by one of those piquancies which make the human comedy the infinitely delightful thing it is, it was accepted at its face value with a complacency that was hardly decent.
“How extremely kind of you!”
A shiver ran through the stout fibers of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson. The robust Miss Parbury had a horrid momentary feeling that some one was in the act of walking across her grave.
“But, my dear George,”—the voice of the hostess was imperious, yet by comparison with the organ tones around her it sounded oddly high and thin—“luncheon is at a quarter to two. Aren’t you forgetting?”
The intrepid young man was not forgetting. He could easily obtain a sandwich at the station.
“But how absurd!”
Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson waited an instant for the departing governess to agree that it was absurd, as any self-respecting governess must surely have done in the circumstances, but she waited in vain.