The uncompromising directness of these brats, their gross ill-mannerliness, was a matter of which Bob made constant complaint to his mother. The belief that he observed a twitch at the corner of Mary's mouth served further to harden his tones. He said: “Look here, you run away when I tell you, or I'll see you don't come out here any more.” “Why?” Bob swallowed. It was necessary before he spoke to clear his tongue of the emotions that surged upon it. Angela, in the pause, entreated David: “Oh, don't keep saying 'Why?', David,” and before he could ask the reason she addressed Bob: “We won't go for you. If Miss Humf'ay tells us to go, _then_ we will go.” Bob looked at Mary. “I only want to speak to you for a minute.” Amongst the slippery apprehensions in which she had taken flight Mary had struggled to the comfortable rock that Bob's appearance must have been chance, not deliberate--how should he have known where to seek them? Sure ground, too, was made by the belief that it were well to take the apology with which doubtless he had come--well to be on good terms. Encouraged by these supports, “Shoo!” she cried to her charges. “Don't you hear what your brother asks?” “Do _you_ want us to go?” “Oh, shoo! shoo!” Laughing, they shoo'd. Bob let them from earshot. “I want to say how sorry I am about Friday night.” “I have forgotten all that.” “I want to know that you have forgiven me.” “I tell you I have forgotten it.” “That is not enough. You can't have forgotten it.” He took a seat beside her; repeated: “You can't have forgotten it. How can you have forgotten a thing that only happened three days ago?” “In the sense that I have wiped it out--I do not choose to remember it.” “Well, I remember it. I cannot forget it. I behaved very badly. I want to know that you forgive me.” She told him: “Yes, then--oh yes, yes.” His persistence alarmed her, set her again to flight among her apprehensions. “Not when you say it like that.” Her breath came in jerks, responsive to the unsteady flutters of her heart. She made an effort for control; for the first time turned to him: “Mr. Chater, please go.” Her words pricked every force that had him there--desire, obstinacy, wounded vanity. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “You happened to be passing--” “Nothing of the kind,” he told her. “You have come purposely?” One foothold that seemed safe was proving false. “Of course. I tell you--why won't you believe me?--that I have been ashamed of myself ever since that night. At the first opportunity I have come straight to tell you so, I ought to be in the City. I could not rest until I had made my apology.” “Well, you have made it--I don't mean to say that sharply. I think--I think it is very nice of you to be so anxious, and I freely accept your apology. But don't you see that you are harming me by staying here? I beg you to go.” “How am I harming you? Am I so distasteful to you that you can't bear me near you?”