“Who is it that’s downstairs now?” he asked, fretfully, as the bursts of merriment sounded through the floor. “Sit down, Johnny.”
“It’s a girl from the Bell-and-Clapper refreshment-room. Miss Panken they call her.”
Roger frowned. “I have told Lizzie over and over again that I wouldn’t have those girls encouraged here. What can possess her to do it?” And, after saying that, he passed into one of those fits of restlessness that used to attack him at Gibraltar Terrace.
“Look here, Roger,” I said, presently, “couldn’t you—pull up a bit? Couldn’t you put all this nonsense away?”
“Which nonsense?” he retorted.
“What would Mr. Brandon say if he knew it? I’ll not speak of your mother. It is not nice, you know; it is not, indeed.”
“Can’t you speak out?” he returned, with intense irritation. “Put what away?”
“Lizzie.”
I spoke the name under my breath, not liking to say it, though I had wanted to for some time. All the anger seemed to go out of Roger. He lay still as death.