"How I hate that good, good woman!" she cried. "I'll never see her again as long as I live, after to-morrow. Oh, I should like to hit her!" The propulsions of cause upon cause are, as Bacon has said, infinite. If Mrs. Bort had not washed--in the technical sense, of course--on that particular Friday, Neaera would have come and gone--perhaps even Mrs. Bort might have gone too--before the train brought George Neston to Liverpool, and his eager inquiries landed him at Mrs. Bort's abode. As it was, Mrs. Bort's little servant bade him wait in the parlour, as her mistress was talking to a female in the kitchen. The little servant thought "female" the politest possible way of describing any person who was not a man, and accorded the title to Neaera on account of her rustling robes and gold-tipped parasol. George did not question his informant, thereby showing that he, in the _rôle_ of detective, was a square peg in a round hole. He heard proceeding from the kitchen a murmur of two subdued voices, one of which, however, dominated the other. "That must be Mrs. Bort," thought he. "I wish I could hear the female." Then his attention wandered, for he made sure the unknown could not be Neaera, as she had had a day's start of him. He did not allow for Mrs. Bort's washing. Suddenly the dominant voice was raised to the pitch of distinctness. "Have ye told him," it said, "or have ye lied to him, as you lied to me yesterday?" "I didn't--I didn't," was the answer. "You never asked me if I was going to be married." "Oh, go along! You know how I'd have answered that when ye lived with me." "How's that?" asked George, with a slight smile. "Have ye told him?" "Told him what?" asked Neaera; for it was clearly Neaera. "Told him you're a thief." "This woman's a brute," thought George. "Have ye?" "No, not exactly. How dare you question me?" "Dare!" said Mrs. Bort; and George knew she was standing with her arms akimbo. "Dare!" she repeated _crescendo_; and apparently her aspect was threatening, for Neaera cried, "Oh, I didn't mean that. Do let me go." "Tell the truth, if your tongue'll do it. The truth, will ye?" "The deuce!" said George; for, following on this last speech, he heard a sob. "No, I haven't. I--oh, do have mercy on me!" "Mercy! It's not mercy, it's a stick you want. But I'll tell him." "Ah, stop, for Heaven's sake!" There was a little scuffle; then the door flew open, and Mrs. Bort appeared, with Neaera clinging helplessly about her knees. George rose and bowed politely. "I'm afraid I intrude," said he. "That's easy mended," said Mrs. Bort, with significance. Neaera had leapt up on seeing him, and leant breathless against the door, looking like some helpless creature at bay. "Who let you in?" demanded the lady of the house. "Your servant." "I'll let _her_ in," said Mrs. Bort, darkly. "Who are ye?" George looked at Neaera. "My name is Neston," he said blandly. "Neston?" "Certainly."