He was on his feet again in an instant, blushing, confused. 'I--I beg your pardon,' he stammered. 'I don't know what induced me to--to behave like--like a fool.' In sober truth he did not, being all unused to self-analysis, and far too young to understand his own instinctive recoil from the cheap cajolery which had caused his outburst. But she was older; she understood. He would not let her stoop, and yet--ah, God! how low she had stooped already! So the emotion she had wantonly provoked in him caught her and swept her from her feet. 'Oh, George!' she cried, coming a step nearer and thrusting her hands into his as if to hold him fast and make him listen. 'It was a mistake! I meant no harm--no harm to any one--least of all to you.' 'No harm!' he echoed blankly. 'What harm have you done?' She looked at him, realising her own imprudence, yet for all that not sufficiently mistress of herself for caution. A worse woman than she might have kept silence; but she could not. The shame, the dread of betraying the lad who trusted her so utterly forced her on. 'Don't ask, George!' she pleaded. 'I can't tell you--indeed there is nothing to tell. Only you must not go down to Hodinuggur now. Believe me, it is better you should not. I can give you no reason, but it is so. Don't go, George, for my sake. 'For your sake,' he echoed, still more blankly. 'Why? I don't understand--Mrs. Boynton, I----' He paused; his hand went up in a fierce gesture, and came down in still fiercer clasp on the mantelpiece. His eyes left her face, shifting their startled, incredulous gaze to his own grim jest leaning against the brass Buddha. 'Unless--unless----' There was a dead silence. 'If there is anything to tell,' he said at last, 'tell it me for God's sake; it would be better--than this. Why am I to stay?--for your sake.' Tell! How could she tell the horrible truth; and yet if he knew all he might be able to help. Then the need of support, the craving for sympathy, which at all times make it hard for a woman in trouble to keep her own counsel, fought against the evasion suggested by caution. 'Oh, George! I meant no harm--I did not, indeed.' The weak appeal for mercy, which presages so many a miserable confession, struck cold to the lad's heart. He walked over to the table and flung himself into a chair, hiding his face in his clasped hands. 'You had better tell me everything,' he said in a muffled voice. 'Then I shall know what to do--don't be afraid--it--it won't make any difference.' Once more his words roused her self-scorn and made her forget herself for a time. 'But it must make a difference, I want it to make a difference,' she cried hotly, crossing to the table in her turn, and seating herself opposite him. 'Yes! I will tell you. It is the only thing to be done now.' She was never a woman given to sobs and tears, and even through the shame of it all, there was a relief in telling the tale.