George rose. He was too tremendously moved to contain himself while seated. “Done no harm!” he cried. He took a step to the window. “Done no--” He stopped short. “Oh, Lord! I say, Mary! Oh, Lord! here's Bill!” Mary fluttered to his side; saw Bill Wyvern disappear beneath the porch of the door. A knock; shuffling in the passage; footsteps up the stairs. “By Gad! I'd forgotten all about old Bill,” George said. Then Bill entered. CHAPTER VIII. Abishag The Shunamite In Meath Street. I. The most tremendous crises between man and man commonly begin with exchange of the customary banalities. Charlotte Corday gave Marat _“Bonsoir, citoyen,”_ ere she drove her knife. This was no cloak to hide her purpose. We are so much creatures of convention that the man who sets out, hell in breast, to avenge himself upon another, cannot forbear to give him greeting before ever he comes upon the matter between them. George, involuntarily straightening his back as he remembered how desperately he had hoodwinked this Bill, had upon a fool's errand packed him to that inn, as involuntarily passed him the customary words. “Hullo, Bill!” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?” He awaited the burst of reproach; the torrent of fury. These did not come. About Bill's mouth, as from George to Mary he glanced, there were the lines of amusement; no menace lay in his clear blue eyes. “Went to look for you at the hospital,” Bill replied. “Met that man Franklyn, and he told me you very probably were here.” George pushed ahead with the banalities. “Surprised to see Miss Humfray here?” he asked. “You met her, of course, at my uncle's while--while”--this was dangerous ground, and he hurried over it--“while I was away,” he said quickly; blew his nose. Bill told him: “Yes. Not a bit surprised.” The creases of amusement became more evident. He shook Mary's hand. “Ah!” George said. “Um! Quite so. Sit down, Bill.” They took seats. Constraint was upon these people; each sat upon the extreme edge of the chair selected. After a pause, “You've been to Herons' Holt, then?” George remarked. “Yesterday. Yesterday night.” “Ah! Yesterday. Thursday, so to speak. Um! Margaret quite well?” “Quite.” The deadly pause came on again. Mary looked appealing to her George. George, his right boot in a patch of sunlight, earnestly was watching it as, twisting it this way and that, the polish caught the rays. It lay with herself to make a thrust through this fearful silence. Upon a timid little squeak she shot out: “Mr. Marrapit quite well?” “Quite,” Bill told her. “Quite. A little bit--” He checked; again the silence fell. Mary no longer could endure it. Impulsively leaning forward, arms outstretched, hands clasped, “Oh, Mr. Wyvern!” she cried. “You're _not_ angry with George, _are_ you? He _couldn't_ help sending you to that inn, _could_ he?” Constraint fled. “Of course I'm not,” Bill declared. “Not a bit. I've come here to congratulate you both. I--”