"But I must mind, Paul. Something has taken place that has upset you. Tell me what it is."
Even yet Paul was scarcely master of himself. The words he had heard still rang in his ears and rankled in his heart. He felt as though all the joy of the day had been destroyed by what Wilson had said. He knew, too, that it would become public property by the morrow. There were those who witnessed the affair who would not be slow in making it known. Perhaps, too, it would come to his mother's ears in a garbled fashion, and would wound her more than if he told her himself.
"Has the man Bolitho done anything?" she said. "Or is it your opponent? Was he terribly cut up because you beat him, Paul?"
"No," he replied. "I've never heard of Bolitho, and as for Boston, he's a splendid fellow. He took his beating like a man and offered me his friendship afterwards."
"Then what is it? Is the news I've heard, that Wilson is engaged to Miss Bolitho, true?"
"Have you heard that?"
"Yes; I have heard it only to-day."
"I wish I had killed him!" he said, and his voice was hoarse and unnatural.
"What do you mean, Paul? Tell me what has happened."
Had he not been excited beyond measure, he would have told the story in such a way as to take away the sting from it. As it was, never dreaming of the results, he related what had taken place, and repeated the words Wilson had said. No sooner had he spoken, however, than he was mad with himself for being so unguarded. His mother's face became drawn with agony. Her eyes shone with a strange light, and he saw her clench and unclench her hands like one in great pain.