"It's no scratch," said the mother. "Tell me, what is it, Paul? I must know!" And she caught him by the arm.
"It's no use telling you, mother," he said, facing her. "And you needn't trouble; I am not hurt very much."
The woman looked searchingly at his face, and knew by its extreme pallor and the tremor of his lips that he was much wrought upon.
"Paul," she said. "This is Wilson's doing!"
"Is it?" he said, with an uneasy laugh. "Well, he shall pay for it, anyhow!"
"I was right, then. It's true. Has he beaten you?"
"No, mother," he said. "I'm not to be beaten by Wilson."
"You shall not! You shall not!" And her voice was hoarse. "Tell me, Paul, tell me. What is it? I must know—I will know!"
"Very well," he said. "If you will know, come into my study." And then he described the scene which had taken place.
The woman fixed her eyes upon him, and kept them fixed all the time he was speaking. Her face never moved a muscle, although her hands clenched and unclenched themselves nervously. "And you'll pay him out for this?" she said at length, when he had finished his story.