Mr. Marrapit's groan inspirited George. He was on the right track. He took Note 4. “I asked myself, Who is responsible for the jeopardy in which these creatures have been placed? Heaven knows, I said, what they may not have suffered. This woman may have neglected their food, she may have neglected their comforts. In a drunken fit she might have poisoned them, beat them, set furious dogs upon them.”
George acted as Note 4 bade him. He dropped his voice. “Let us trust, sir,” he said, “that none of these things has taken place.”
George's voice took a sterner note. “But, I asked myself, Who is responsible for those horrors that might have been, that may have been?”
Mr. Marrapit dropped his head upon his hands. He murmured: “I am. Peccavi.”
George rose in noble calm. He read Note 5; gave it with masterly effect: “No, sir. I am.”
“I! I have not slept since I leftyou, sir. I have paced my room and” (he read a masterly note) “remorse has paced with me, step by step, hour by hour. Did I help my uncle, I asked myself, when he was selecting this Mrs. Major? No. Was I by his right hand to counsel and advise him? No. Has not my training at hospital, my intercourse with ten thousand patients, taught me to read faces like an open book? It has. Should not I then have been by his side to help him when he selected a woman for the post of caring for our-forgive me, sir, I said 'our'--caring for our cats? I should. I asked myself how I could make amends. Only by begging my uncle's forgiveness for my indifference and by imploring him to let me help him in the choice of the next woman he selects.”
A masterly pause he followed with an appeal sent forth in tones of rare beauty: “Oh, sir, I do beg your forgiveness; I do implore you let me make amends by helping you in your next choice.”
Mr. Marrapit wiped moist eyes. “I had not suspected in you this profundity of feeling.”
George said brokenly: “I have given you no reason.”
Mr. Marrapit replied on a grim tone: “Assuredly you have not.”
George glanced at Note 6; fled from the danger zone.
“Where I fear the mistake was made in Mrs. Major,” he hurried, “was that she was not a perfect lady. Our--forgive me for saying 'our'--our cats are refined cats, cats of gentle birth, of inherent delicacy. Their attendant should be of like breeding. She should be refined, her birth should be gentle, her feelings delicate. She should be a lady.”