Nell was silent. She seemed to have no spark of spirit left. She made no defence. Suddenly he rose and came to her. He caught her shoulders and shook her.
"There, never mind, you poor meek little goose! You'd better be off to bed, and sleep some sense into your soft old head."
She was struggling desperately against tears.
"I—I'm awfully sorry, Denis—and ashamed—I—I do believe I was mad—"
"Course you were," cheerfully, "temporary insanity. It's this beastly London fog got into your brain. I'll make it all right with Lancaster—tell him you're sorry and all that."
She winced.
"Yes—please," she said. "And—and you won't—feel that you—that I—"
"I've forgotten all about it already, old girl!" he declared generously.
CHAPTER VIII
"What d'you think I'm let in for, Nell O'Brien?"