"I can see you in Aunt's parlor if you like, Mr. Horace."
"Yes."
Frere strode into the house—a moment later he was standing opposite to Hetty in the little hot gaslit parlor.
Hetty had evidently been crying. Her tears had brought shadows under her eyes—they added pathos to her lovely face, giving it a look of depth which it usually lacked. Frere gave her one glance, then he felt his anger dropping from him like a mantle.
"For God's sake, Hetty, speak the truth," said the poor fellow.
"What do you want me to say, Mr. Horace?" she asked.
Her voice was tremulous, her tears nearly broke forth anew. Frere made a step forward. He would have clasped her to his breast, but she would not allow him.
"No," she said with a sob, "I can't have anything to do with you."
"Hetty, you don't know what you are saying. Hetty, remember this morning."
"I remember it, but I can't go on with it. Forget everything I said—go away—please go away."