now. How could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some trouble?
What has happened? You must tell. You must. I insist."

"Ah, I will." Her agitation, as her mind cast back over the events of
the previous night, was enhanced by the suddenness of the change from
the sunshine in which she had been disporting to the darkness that now
swept upon her. She was as a girl who, singing along a country lane,
is suddenly confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp.

She said, "You know that young Mr. Chater?"

Dark imaginings clouded upon George's brow. "Yes," he said. "Yes;
well--?"

"Last night--" And then she gave him the history of events.

This simple George of mine writhed beneath it.

It was a poison torturing his system, twisting his brow, knotting his
hands. Her presence, when she finished, did not stay his cry beneath
his rackings: he was upon his feet. "By Gad," he cried, "I'll thrash
the life out of him! The swine! By Gad, I'll kill him!"

She laid a hand upon his arm. "Georgie, dear," she pleaded. "Don't,
don't take it like that. I haven't finished."

Roughly he turned upon her. "Well, what else? What else?"

"I haven't seen him since. He went away early this morning for the
week-end. And I have not seen Mrs. Chater again either. I am to see