“My boy! Tell me!” Her boy raised his dripping face from the basin. “For God's sake shut the door!” he roared. She did. “Tell me!” she trembled. “It's that damned girl.” “That girl?” “Miss Humfray!” “Miss Humfray! Done that to you! Oh, your poor face! Your poor face!” “No!--no! Do be quiet, mother! Some infernal man she goes about with in the Park! I spoke to him and he set on me!” “The infamous creature! The wicked, infamous girl! A bad girl, I knew it!--” Agitated tapping at the door: “The cotton-wool m'am.” “Sticking-plaster, m'am.” “'Ot bottle, m'am.” “Go away!” roared Bob. “Go away! O-oo, my face!” He hopped in wrath and pain. “Send those damned women away!” Mrs. Chater rushed to the door. Passing, she for the first time caught full sight of her son's face now that the hot water had exposed its wreck. “Oh, your eyes! Your poor eyes! They're closing up!” Bob staggered to the mirror; discovered the full horror of his marred beauty. “Curse it!” he groaned and gave an order. Mrs. Chater flew to the telephone. In the office of Mr. Samuel Hock, purveyor of meat, by appointment, to the Prince of Wales, the telephone bell sharply rang. Mr. Hock stepped to the receiver, listened, then bellowed an order into the shop: “One of beefsteak to 14 Palace Gardens, sharp!” CHAPTER VI. A Cab For 14 Palace Gardens. I. With tremendous strides, with emotion roaring in and out his nostrils in gusty blasts of fury, my passionate George encompassed the Park this way and that until he came at length upon his trembling Mary. Save for that first blow where Bob's ring had marked his cheek he had suffered but little in the fight--sufficiently, notwithstanding, coupled with his colossal demeanour, for Mary's eyes to discover that something was amiss. She came to him; cried at a little distance: “Oh, dearest, I--I could not meet you at the seat.” Then she saw more clearly. She asked: “What has happened?” and stood with quivering lip recording the flutters of her heart. George took one hand; patted it between both his. For the moment his boiling anger cooled beneath grim relish of his news. “I've pretty well killed that Chater swine,” he said. “Mr. Chater?--you've met Mr. Chater?” Now emotion boiled again in her turbulent George. He said: “I saw you run from him. I saw--what had he been doing?” “Oh, Georgie!” “Well, never mind. I'd rather not hear. I've paid him for it, whatever it was.” “You fought? Oh, and your face--and your hand bleeding too!” Tears stood in this ridiculous Mary's eyes. Women so often cry at the wrong moment. They should more closely study their men in the tremendous mannish crises that come to some of us. This was no moment for tears; it was an hour to be Amazon. To be hard-eyed. To count the scalps brought home by the brave--in delight to squeal over them; in pride to clap the hands and jump for joy at such big behaviour. My Mary erred in every way. Her moistening eyes annoyed George.