Enough had been said; her little scene was now complete; the listening figure in the next room could put but one interpretation upon what she had heard. Mary let Jack hold her hands and his ardent gaze she returned with a seemingly equal ardor. But her faculties were really all in the next room, witnessing what was happening there. She visioned the girl as standing transfixed at this evidence of Jack’s faithlessness; and then in pain, in a fury of pride, stealing silently away—later to say, if by any chance she ever again spoke to Mary, that she had changed her mind and had decided not to come that afternoon.
That stricken, creeping figure was what Mary visioned; that was the way she had calculated human nature would react. What she actually saw, the next moment, was Maisie Jones standing in the doorway, her hands clenched so that her white gloves had burst at a dozen seams, her figure trembling, her blue eyes blazing fury.
“I’ve heard everything!” she gasped. “Oh, you—”
“Maisie!” breathed Jack, staring.
“Oh, you sneaks—you liars—you beasts—both of you!”
“Maisie—you don’t understand—listen—”
“Don’t come near me!” She backed through the door. “Don’t come near me!”
He followed her in consternation, Mary behind him, until all three were in the sitting-room. “Listen, Maisie, for God’s sake!” he cried. “You don’t understand—”
“Oh, yes, I do understand!” the furious girl flamed at him. “After what I heard, I couldn’t help understanding! You’re simply a low, vicious, lying beast of a man, Jack Morton,—you with your pretense of having steadied down and become a worker! And this woman you’ve been living with—your—your—”
He had seized her wrist. “Maisie,” he said, “say what you like about me. But don’t say a word against Mary—for Mary—”