“I can’t tell you here, Allan,” she said. “Wait till we get to some quiet place.”
“But,” he persisted. “The Prentice? They let you come home alone?”
“They didn’t know it,” she said. “I ran away.”
He was more bewildered than ever. But as he started to ask more questions, she laid a hand upon his arm. “Please wait, Allan,” she said. “It upsets me to talk about it. It was Charlie Carter.”
And so the light broke. He caught his breath and gasped, “Oh!”
He said not another word until they had crossed the ferry and settled themselves in a cab, and started. “Now,” he said, “tell me.”
Alice began. “I was very much upset,” she said. “But you must understand, Allan, that I’ve had nearly a week to think it over, and I don’t mind it now. So I want you please not to get excited about it; it wasn’t poor Charlie’s fault—he can’t help himself. It was my mistake. I ought to have taken your advice and had nothing to do with him.”
“Go on,” said he; and Alice told her story.
The party had gone sight-seeing, and she had had a headache and had stayed in the car. And Charlie Carter had come and begun making love to her. “He had asked me to marry him already—that was at the beginning of the trip,” she said. “And I told him no. After that he would never let me alone. And this time he went on in a terrible way—he flung himself down on his knees, and wept, and said he couldn’t live without me. And nothing I could say did any good. At last he—he caught hold of me—and he wouldn’t let me go. I was furious with him, and frightened. I had to threaten to call for help before he would stop. And so—you see how it was.”
“I see,” said Montague, gravely. “Go on.”