Her bold George had to know. “It won't be for very long, dear old girl. You must find another situation. Till then a lodging. I know a place where a man I know used to have digs. A jolly old landlady. I'll raise some money--I'll borrow it.” Mary tried to brighten. “Yes, and I'll go to that agency again. I must, because I shall have no character, you see. I'll tell her everything quite truthfully, and I think she'll be nice.” “It's no good waiting,” George said. His voice had the sound of a funeral bell. Mary arose slowly, white. She said: “Come along.” With a tumbril rumble in their ears, the children dancing ahead, they started for Palace Gardens. IV. The groans and curses of her adored Bob, his bulgy mouth and shutting eyes, his tender nose and the encrimsoned water where he had layed his wounds--these had so acted upon Mrs. Chater's nerves, plunged her into such vortex of hysteria, that the manner of her reception of Mary was true reflection of her fears, nothing dissembled. Withdrawing her agitated face from the dining-room window as Mary and the children approached, she bounded heavily to the door; flung it ajar; collapsed to her knees upon the mat; clasped David and Angela to that heaving bosom. “Safe!” she wailed. “Safe! Thank God, my little lambs are safe!” Distraught she swayed and hugged; kissed and moaned again. David pressed away. “You smell like whisky, mummie,” he said. It was a dash of icy water on a fainting fit; wonderfully it strung the demented woman's senses. She pushed her little lambs from her; fixed Mary with awful eye. “So you've come back--_Miss?_” Mary quivered. “I wonder you dared. I wonder you had the boldness to face me after your wicked behaviour. You've got nothing to say for yourself. I'm not surprised--” Mary began: “Mrs. Chater, I--” “Oh, how can you? How can you dare defend yourself? Never, never in all my born days have I met with such ingratitude; never have I been deceived like this. I took you in. I felt sorry for you. I fed you, clothed you, cared for you, treated you as one of my own family; and this is my reward. There you stand, unable to say a word--” “If you think, Mrs. Chater--” “Don't _speak_! I won't hear you. Here have I day after day been entrusting my beloved lambs to your care, and heaven alone knows what risks they have run. My boy--my Bob, who would die rather than get a living soul into trouble--sees you with this man you have been going about with. He does his duty to me, his mother, and to my precious lambs, his brother and sister, by reproving you, and you set this man--this low hired bully--upon him to murder him. I'll have the law on the coward. I'll punish him and I'll punish you, miss. No wonder you were frightened when my Bob caught you. No wonder.” “That is untrue, Mrs. Chater.” “Don't _speak!_” “I will speak. I shall speak. It is untrue.” “You dare--” “It is a lie. Yes, I don't mind what I say when you speak to me like that. It is a wicked lie.”