He would not agree. He plunged along in his blundering, man fashion: “In time you could get a place where they would not ask questions--or rather--yes, of course this is it. Tell them frankly all that happened. Who could see you and not believe you? Tell them everything. There must be some nice people in the world.” “There may be. But they don't want helps or governesses--in my experience.” The little laugh she gave was sadly doleful. He was still angry. “You can't generalise like that. There are thousands who would believe you and be glad to take you. Suppose you have to wait a bit--well, you have a little money that she must give you; and I--oh, curse my poverty!--I can borrow, and I can sell things.” The help that a man would give a woman so often has lack of sympathy; he is unkind while meaning to be kind. George's obdurateness, coming when she was most in need of kisses, hurt her. Trouble welled in her eyes. “I wouldn't do that,” she said. “For one thing, we want all our money. Why throw it away to get me out of a place in which I shall only be for a few weeks longer? Another thing--another thing--” She dragged a ridiculous handkerchief from her sleeve; dabbed her brimming eyes. “Another thing--I'm afraid to risk it. I'm afraid to be alone and looking for a place again. There--now you know. I'm a coward.” She fell to sniffing and sobbing; and her wretched George, cursing himself for the grief he had evoked, cursing Bob Chater, cursing Mrs. Chater, cursing his uncle Marrapit, put his arms about her and drew her to him. She quivered hysterically, and he frantically moaned that he was a beast, a brute, unworthy; implored forgiveness; entreated calm; by squeezing her with his left arm and with his right hand dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, screwed to a pathetic little damp ball, strove to stem the flood that alarmingly welled from them. VII. It was an awful position for any young man; and just as my poor George, distinguished in nothing, inept, bewildered, was in a mood murderous to the whole world save this anguished fairy, a wretched old gentleman must needs come sunning himself down the path, making for this seat with hobbling limbs. He collapsed upon it, and then, glancing to his right, was struck with palpitations by sight of the heaving back of a young woman over whose shoulder glared at him with hideous ferocity the face of a young man. “Dear me, dear me,” said he; “nothing wrong, sir, I trust?” “Go away!” roared my distracted George. “Eh?” inquired the old gentleman, horribly startled. “Go away! Go away!” The fire of those baleful eyes, of that bellowing voice, struck terror into the aged heart. He clutched his stick. “Oh dear, oh dear,” said he; hobbled away at a speed dangerous to his life and limbs to seek protection of a park-keeper. The sobs grew longer, less hysterical: changed into long “ohs” of misery; died away. “There, there,” said George, patting, dabbing. “There, there.”