She was like her father, who took
what belonged to other people and used it badly.
She sat, flaccid, her hands loose on her lap. She felt incapable of
movement, but Charles was speaking to her, telling her to get out and
run home quickly. She looked at him. She was holding his friendly
hand. What would she have done without him? She saw herself in the
train, speeding through the lonely darkness; she saw herself knocking
at Mrs. Banks's door, felt herself clasped to the doubtful blackness
of that bosom, and she shuddered.
'You must go,' Charles said, but he still held her hand.
He had brought her back to cleanliness and comfort, he had saved her
from behaviour of gross ingratitude, he had been marvellously kind and
wise.
'Charles,' she said, 'it's awful.'
'No, it's all right. We've been to a concert.'
'Yes'--her voice sank--'I've kept that promise. But the whole thing--
and Aunt Caroline so ill. She may have died.'
'There hasn't been time,' he said.
'Oh, Charles, it only takes a minute.'
'Well, run home quickly. This bag's a nuisance,' he said, but he
looked at it tenderly. How he had dogged that bag! How heavy it
had seemed for her! 'Look here, I'll take it home and get it to you
to-morrow somehow.'
'I don't want it. I hate it.'
He thought, 'I'll keep it, then,' and aloud he said, 'I'll wrap the
things up in a parcel and let you have them. Nothing you don't want me
to see, is there?'
'No, nothing.
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