Then Peter came forward from the wall, muttering, waving his hands at her—“It's you! You! You! You've driven her to this—you and your cursed interference. You took her from me—you told her to deceive me in everything. You taught her to lie and trick. She loved me before you came into it. Now be proud, if you like—now be proud. God damn you, for making your daughter into a whore—That's what you've done, you with your flat face, your filthy flat face—you've made your daughter a whore, I tell you—and it's nothing but you—you—you—!”
He lifted his hand as though he would strike her across the face. She said nothing but started back with her hands up as though to protect herself. He did not strike her. His hand fell. But she, as though she had felt a blow had her hand held to her face.
He stood over her for a moment laughing, his head flung back. Then still laughing he went away from them out into the hall.
Then, through the open door they heard him. He passed through the upper rooms crying out as he went—“Clare! Clare! Where are you? Come down! They're here for dinner! You're wanted! It's time, Clare!—where are you Clare! Clare!”
They heard him, knocking furniture over as he went. Then there was silence. Mrs. Rossiter seemed, at that, to come to herself. She stood up, feeling her cheek.
“It's sent him off his head, Bobby. Go after him. He'll hurt himself.” Then as though to herself, she went on—“I must And Clare—she'll be in Paris, I suppose. I must go and find her, Bobby. She'll want me badly.”
She went quietly from the room, still with her hand to her cheek. She listened for a moment in the hall.
She turned round to Bobby:
“It doesn't say—the letter—where Clare's gone?”
“No—only Paris.”
He helped her on with her cloak and opened the front door for her. She slipped away down the street.
Bobby turned back and saw that Peter was coming down the stairs. But now the fury had all died from his face^ only that look, as of some animal wounded to death,
