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“Oh, you are utterly wrong,” the boy said forcibly, almost angrily. “If you judge a man by what he does on impulse you might decorate the biggest blackguard in the world with the V.C.”

“You’re made of impulse, my dear lad,” Bertie remarked, walking off with him. “You’re a mass of impulse. That’s why you do such idiotic things.”

Charlie yielded, chafing, to the friendly hand.

“I should like to kick you, Bertie,” he said.

But he went no further than that. Bertie Richmond was his very good friend, and he was Bertie’s. Neither of them was likely to forget that fact.

VIII

“Oh, Charlie, here you are! I am glad!”

Molly entered the smoking-room with an air of resolution. She had just returned from evening church with Fisher. They were late, and the latter had gone off to dress forthwith.

But Molly had glanced into the smoking-room, and, seeing Charlie alone there, as she had half hoped but scarcely expected, she entered.

Charlie sprang up instantly, his brown face exceedingly alert.

“Come to the fire!” he said hospitably.

Molly went, but did not sit down. She stood facing him on the hearth-rug. Her young face was very troubled.

“I want to tell you,” she said steadily, “how sorry–and grieved–I am for all the hard things I have said and thought of you. I would like to retract them all. I was quite wrong. I took you for an idler–a buffoon almost. I know better now. And I–I should like you to forgive me.”

Her voice suddenly faltered. Her eyes were full of tears she could neither repress nor conceal.

Charlie, however, seemed to notice nothing strained in the atmosphere. He broke into a gay laugh and held out his hand.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said briskly. “Shake hands and forget what those asses said about me! You were quite right, you know. I am a buffoon. There isn’t an inch of heroism anywhere about me. You took my measure long ago, didn’t you? To change the subject, I’m most awfully pleased to hear that you and old Fisher have come to an understanding. Congratulate you most heartily. There’s solid worth in that chap. He goes straight ahead and never plays the fool.”

He looked straight at her as he spoke. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he seem to recall the fact that he had once asked on his own behalf that which he apparently so heartily approved of her bestowing upon another.

Yet Molly, torn with remorse over what was irrevocable, did a most outrageous thing.

“Charlie!” she cried, with a deep ringing passion that would not be suppressed. “Why have I been deceived like this? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you let me imagine anything so false?” She flung out her other hand to him and he took it; but still he laughed.

“Oh, come, Molly!” he protested. “I did tell you, you know. I told you the day after it happened. Don’t you remember? I had to account for the skirt.”

She wrenched her hands away from him. The thrill of laughter in his voice seemed to jar all her nerves. She was, moreover, wearied with the emotions of the day.

“Oh, don’t you see,” she cried passionately, “how different it might have been? If you had told me–if you had made me understand! I could have cared–I did care–only you seemed to me–unworthy. How could I know? What chance had I?”

She bowed her head suddenly, and burst into a storm of bitter weeping.

Charlie turned white to his lips. He stood perfectly motionless till the anguished sobbing goaded him beyond endurance. Then he flung round with a jerk.

“Stop, for Heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed harshly. “I can’t bear it. It’s too much–too much.”

He moved close to her, his face twitching, and took her shaking shoulders between his hands.

“Molly!” he said almost violently. “You don’t know what you said just now. You didn’t mean it. It has always been Fisher–always, from the very beginning.”