Then, justly or
unjustly, her fears crystallized and she had something tangible to
fight, for the pock-marked man was standing beside Louis, patting him on
the back and smiling at him.
The words of Louis' letter flashed into the depths of her mind: _"That
pock-marked man's a devil--he's trying to get me."_
She made her frightened feet go nearer. Ole Fred saw her and grinned.
"Come for that drink, miss?" he asked. She scowled at him; if she had
been nine instead of nineteen it would have been called deliberately
"making a face." Then she looked past him to Louis.
"I've been waiting for you half an hour, Louis."
"I'm not coming," he said, looking away from her awkwardly. "Y-you've
b-better c-company than m-mine."
She flushed and felt herself trembling with temper. A flash from her
father's eyes lit up her face as she said quickly:
"No, I haven't. I want to talk to you."
"I c-can't l-leave these chaps now. I'll s-see you to-morrow," he said
sullenly.
"Oh no, you'll not. What's to do, Louis? You said you wanted to see me,
and there I was waiting for you, and feeling so lonely."
"Go on, ole man. Take her in a dark corner somewhere. Wants a spoon
pretty bad," said the red-haired man. "The bar don't close till eleven,
an' we'll have some in Number 15 if you're too late."
Marcella treated him to one of her scowls that astonished him, and
suddenly, setting his teeth, Louis put down his glass, took her arm
roughly and, striding along blindly, made forrard.
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