“——! ——!! ——!!! ——!!!! ——!!!!!” cried Chester.
Felicia stood staring at him. In her eyes was the look of one who sees visions.
“***!!! ***!!! ***!!! ***!!!” roared Chester, in part.
A great wave of emotion flooded over the girl. How she had misjudged this silver-tongued man!
She shivered as she thought that, had this not happened, in another five minutes they would have parted for ever, sundered by seas of misunderstanding, she cold and scornful, he with all his music still within him.
“Oh, Mr. Meredith!” she cried, faintly.
With a sickening abruptness Chester came to himself. It was as if somebody had poured a pint of ice-cold water down his back. He blushed vividly. He realised with horror and shame how grossly he had offended against all the canons of decency and good taste. He felt like the man in one of those “What Is Wrong With This Picture?” things in the advertisements of the etiquette-books.
“I beg—I beg your pardon!” he mumbled, humbly. “Please, please, forgive me. I should not have spoken like that.”
“You should! You should!” cried the girl, passionately. “You should have said all that and a lot more. That awful man ruining your record round like that! Oh, why am I a poor weak woman with practically no vocabulary that’s any use for anything!”
Quite suddenly, without knowing that she had moved, she found herself at his side, holding his hand.