lly.

"I can't!... I can't! I ... I love him!"

That had not occurred to this young man as a conceivable possibility,
and he sat silenced. The church-bells pealed on; the sun sank a little
lower; Gertie sobbed more and more gently; and Frank's mind worked like
a mill, revolving developments. Finally, she grew quiet, lay still, and,
as the bells gave place to one of their number, sat up. She dabbed at
her eyes with a handful of wet grass, passed her sleeve across them once
or twice, and began to talk.

"I ... I'm very silly, Frankie," she said, "but I can't help it. I'm
better now. Don't tell George."

"Of course I shan't!" said Frank indignantly.

"You're a gentleman too," said Gertie. (Frank winced a little,
interiorly, at the "too.") "I can see that you're polite to a lady. And
I don't know however I came to tell you. But there it is, and no harm's
done."

"Why don't you leave him?" said Frank courageously. A little wave of
feeling went over her face.

"He's a gentleman," she said.... "No, I can't leave him. But it does
come over you sometimes; doesn't it?" (Her face wavered again.) "It was
them bells, and the people and all."

"Where's your home?"

She jerked her head in a vague direction.

"Down Londonwards," she said. "But that's all done with. I've made my
bed, and--"

"Tell me plainly: does he bully you?"

"Not to say bully," she said. "He struck me once, but never again."

"Tell me if he does it again."

A small, sly, admirative look came into her eyes. "We'll see," she said.

* * * * *

Frank was conscious of a considerable sense of disappointment. The thing
had been almost touching just now, as the reserve first broke up, but it
was a very poor little soul, it seemed to him, that had at last made its
appearance. (He did not yet see that that made it all the more
touching.) He did not quite see what to do next. He was Christian enough
to resent the whole affair; but he was aristocratic enough in his
fastidiousness to think at this moment that perhaps it did not matter
much for people of this sort. Perhaps it was the highest ideal that
persons resembling the Major and Gertie could conceive. But her next
remark helped to break up his complacency.

"You're a Catholic," she said. "People say that you Catholics don't mind
this kind of thing--me and the Major, I mean."

There was a dreadful sort of sly suggestiveness about this remark that
stung him. He exploded: