George got on to his knees and leant excitedly over her.
“Tell me, do you hate and loathe and detest Traill and the Fossetts and Ransom as much as I do?”
She hesitated.
“Mr. Ransom has a mother in Folkestone he’s very good to. He’s not really bad, you know.”
“Sorry. Wash out Ransom. Traill and the Fossetts?”
“Yes. Oh yes. Oh yes, yes, yes.” Her cheeks flamed as she cried it, and she clenched her hands.
George was on his knees already, and he had no hat to take off, but he was very humble.
“Will you forgive me?” he said. “I think I’ve misjudged you. I mean,” he stammered—“I mean, I don’t mean—of course, it’s none of my business to judge you—I’m speaking like a prig, I—oh, you know what I mean. I’ve been a brute to you. Will you forgive me?”
She held out her hand, and he shook it. This had struck him, when he had seen it on the stage, as an absurdly dramatic way of making friends, but it seemed quite natural now.
“Let’s have lunch,” she said.