Bulstrode was trying to speak, but she wouldn't let him:
"I never can see you again. Never! You mustn't come any more."
But here she half caught her breath and sobbed with what seemed naïve and adorable daring:
"Unless you can help me through, Mr. Bulstrode—it is your fault, after all."
If this were a virtual throwing of herself into his arms, they were all but open to her and the generous heart was all but ready "to see her through." Bulstrode was about to do, and say, the one rash and irrevocable perfect thing when at this minute fate again at the ring of the curtain opportuned. The tap, tapping, of a pony's feet was heard and a gay little cart came brightly along. Bulstrode saw it. He sprang to his feet. It was close upon them.
"You will let me come to-morrow?" he asked eagerly,
"Oh, yes," she whispered; "yes, I shall count on you. I beg you will come."
"Jimmy," said the lady severely as he accepted her invitation to get into the cart, "this is the second wicked rendezvous I have interrupted. I didn't know you were anything like this, and I've seen that girl before, but I can't remember where."
"Don't try," said Bulstrode.
"And she was crying. Of course you made her cry."