She walked quickly to Bertram’s desk and caught hold of the receiver.
Bertram followed her, still explaining, rather desperately. He had given his word. He quite understood Joyce’s point of view. He sympathised to some extent. This Sinn Fein business was criminal folly. But O’Brien had been a friend of his in the War. And he was Susan’s husband. Did she understand? His own brother-in-law! He was in real danger, and it was not in the code of their crowd—was it?—to hand over a hunted man.—A criminal? Well, he didn’t know. O’Brien had told him nothing. He asked no questions. Besides—that was all beside the argument.
“I’ve given my word, Joyce—my honour’s pledged.”
“What about my honour?” asked Joyce. Her voice was very cold and hard. “My father’s name? Our honour to England?”
She turned to Dennis O’Brien, still holding the telephone.
“Are you going? Time’s up.”
Dennis O’Brien smiled at her, and his Irish eyes paid homage to this girl’s beauty as she stood facing him, so hostile. He had been smiling all through Bertram’s monologue. It seemed to amuse him, this altercation between the English girl and his wife’s brother.
“I’m going,” he said. “Don’t worry at all. It’s what one expects of English women! They would turn a starving dog out of doors.”
“Mad dogs,” said Joyce. “With a whip.”
It was Susan now who intervened, ragingly.