A Damsel in Distress

With a shock of dismay so abrupt and overwhelming that it was like

a physical injury, George became aware that something was wrong.

Even as he gripped her, Maud had stiffened with a sharp cry; and

now she was struggling, trying to wrench herself free. She broke

away from him. He could hear her breathing hard.

"You--you----" She gulped.

"Maud!"

"How dare you!"

There was a pause that seemed to George to stretch on and on

endlessly. The rain pattered on the leaky roof. Somewhere in the

distance a dog howled dismally. The darkness pressed down like a

blanket, stifling thought.

"Good night, Mr. Bevan." Her voice was ice. "I didn't think you

were--that kind of man."

She was moving toward the door; and, as she reached it, George's

stupor left him. He came back to life with a jerk, shaking from

head to foot. All his varied emotions had become one emotion--a

cold fury.

"Stop!"

Maud stopped. Her chin was tilted, and she was wasting a baleful

glare on the darkness.

"Well, what is it?"

Her tone increased George's wrath. The injustice of it made him

dizzy. At that moment he hated her. He was the injured party. It

was he, not she, that had been deceived and made a fool of.

"I want to say something before you go."

"I think we had better say no more about it!"

By the exercise of supreme self-control George kept himself from

speaking until he could choose milder words than those that rushed

to his lips.

"I think we will!" he said between his teeth.

Maud's anger became tinged with surprise. Now that the first shock

of the wretched episode was over, the calmer half of her mind was

endeavouring to soothe the infuriated half by urging that George's

behaviour had been but a momentary lapse, and that a man may lose

his head for one wild instant, and yet remain fundamentally a

gentleman and a friend. She had begun to remind herself that this

man had helped her once in trouble, and only a day or two before

had actually risked his life to save her from embarrassment. When

she heard him call to her to stop, she supposed that his better

feelings had reasserted themselves; and she had prepared herself to

receive with dignity a broken, stammered apology. But the voice

that had just spoken with a crisp, biting intensity was not the

voice of remorse. It was a very angry man, not a penitent one, who

was commanding--not begging--her to stop and listen to him.

"Well?" she said again, more coldly this time. She was quite unable

to understand this attitude of his. She was the injured party. It

was she, not he who had trusted and been betrayed.