“Oh, you beast!” she cried.

“Eh!”

“You beast!  You beast!  To do a thing like that!” Then, as she became on better terms with the nature of the vulgar insult to which she had been subjected, her anger blazed out.

“How dare you insult a defenceless girl?”

“But—­” the man stammered.

“What have I ever done but try and work to keep away from such things, and now you come and—­Oh, you beast—­you cruel beast!  You’ll never know what you have done.”

A sense of shame possessed her.  She turned away to drop scalding tears.  Anger quickly succeeded this brief fit of dejection.  It caused her inexpressible pain to think that she, a daughter of a proud family, the girl with the aloof soul, should have been treated in the same way as any fast London shop-girl.  She was consumed with passion; she feared what form her rage might take.  At least she was determined to have the man turned out of the house.  She moved towards the bell.

“If I’ve made a mistake,” began the man, who all this time had been fearfully watching her.

“If you’ve made a mistake!” she echoed scornfully.

“The best of us do sometimes, you know,” he continued.

“Why to me—­to me?  What have I said or done to encourage you?  Why to me?” she cried.

“If I’ve made a mistake, I’m more sorry than I can say, more sorry than you can guess.”

“What’s the use of that to me?  You touched my lips.  Oh, I could tear them!” she cried desperately.

“Will you hear my excuse?”

“There’s no excuse.  Nothing—­nothing will ever make me forget it.  Oh, the shame of it!”

Here bitter tears again welled to her eyes.

The man was moved by her extremity.

“I am so very sorry.  I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything.  I didn’t know you were in the least like this.”

“Why not?  If you had met me as I was before I came here there might have been the shadow of an excuse.  Do you usually behave to girls you meet at friends’ houses like you did to me?”

“In friends’ houses?” he asked, emphasising the word “friends.”

“You heard what I said?”

“This is scarcely a friend’s house.”

“Why not?”

“Eh?”

“Why not?  Why not?  Can’t you tell me?”

“But—­”

“Why not?  Why not?  Answer!”

“Is it possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“You don’t know the house you’re in?”

“What house?” she asked wildly.

The look of terror, of fear, which accompanied this question was enough to dissipate any doubts of the girl’s honesty which may have lingered in the man’s mind.

“How long have you been here?”

“Three hours.”

“And you don’t know what Mrs Hamilton is?”

“No.”

“What?” he cried excitedly.

“Tell me!  Tell me!”

“Just tell me how you met her.”