"Ugh—he is horrible," she whispered, and bit her lip and frowned.
Then his frightened eyes sought hers and she whispered softly.
"Poor boy. Don't be so frightened. Marcella is here."
"Marsh—Marcella," he said, making a desperate effort to sit up and look round. He looked at her, bewildered, at the room, and then his eyes focussed on the lion over the mantelpiece.
"Bri'sh line, ole girl! Shtrength! I'm a line—fi' f'r you when we're married."
"We are married, dear," she said. "Can't you remember it?"
He stared at her again and dragged himself on to his elbow, looking into her face, his brain clearing rapidly. After a moment's desperate grasping for light he burst into tears.
"Married! And drunk! Oh, my God, why did you give me that money, little girl?"
She was crying, too, now, holding his damp, sticky hand.
"I thought—if I trusted you—to-day—"