By God, Nevile, what girls--mere chits--will go through!"
"I know," said Ingram dreamily. "Isn't it awful?" Chevenix looked at him.
He was quite serious. What can you do with such a man as this?
"They left us alone in the room, you know," Ingram continued. "Vicky went
out last and left us in there--and the whole place was charged with
electricity. You could feel it, smell it, hear it crackling all about. My
heart going like a drum; my ears buzzing with it all. I hadn't been able
to speak when they spoke to me. I don't know what the devil they must have
thought of me--and I didn't care a damn. And over across the tea-table, on
a low chair--there she sat--my girl! Her eyes downcast, her mouth adroop."
He shut his eyes for a moment. "And Vicky went out, and left us there!"
"You had it badly, old chap," Chevenix said. "Go slow. Take your time. Or
chuck it, if you'd rather."
Ingram appeared not to hear him; he was staring at the tablecloth, at his
two hands locked in front of him, and at his knuckles white under the
strain.
"I don't know how long I stood gaping at the window, I don't indeed. I
could feel her sitting shaking in her chair; but neither of us said
anything.
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