before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked. The pity of it did
not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt only contempt for
her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long, choking sob she moved
to the door and disappeared. She went blindly along the passage to her
room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried as if her heart would
break. Then followed a period of utter abject misery. She had lost
everythin'; George didn't care for her; she'd have to live all her life
without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.

The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was
intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her
in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his
eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd
tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated
him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded
her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she must
get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could.
They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but
these tears relieved her, did her good.

She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her
away to New York. Marry him?--she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make
up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her.
Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do
that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd
go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet
kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid
time.

She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble--no