“I knew it would be.”

“You didn’t,” he laughed.  He imitated her:  “’Is the exam. really all right?’” She just smiled.  He went on confidently:  “Of course you never know your luck, you know.  There’s the viva to-morrow....  Where’s old Agg?”

“She’s gone home.”

“Thoughtful child!  How soon will she be back?”

“About nine,” said Marguerite, apparently unaware that George was being funny.

“Nine!”

“Oh, George!” Marguerite exclaimed, breaking away from him.  “I’m awfully sorry, but I must get on with my packing.”

“What packing?”

“I have to take my things home.”

“What home?”

“Father’s, I mean.”

She was going to live with her father, who would not willingly allow him, George, to enter the house!  How astounding girls were!  She had written to him twice without giving the least hint of her resolve.  He had to learn it as it were incidentally, through the urgency of packing.  She did not tell him she was going—­she said she must get on with her packing!  And there, lying on the floor, was an open trunk; and two of her drawing-boards already had string round them.

George inquired: 

“How is the old man—­to-day?”

“He’s very nervy,” said Marguerite briefly and significantly.  “I’d better light the lamp; I shall see better.”  She seemed to be speaking to herself.  She stood on a chair and lifted the chimney off the central lamp.  George absently passed her his box of matches.

As she, was replacing the chimney, he said suddenly in a very resolute tone: 

“This is all very well, Marguerite.  But it’s going to be jolly awkward for me.”

She jumped lightly down from the chair, like a little girl.

“Oh!  George!  I know!” she cried.  “It will be awkward for both of us.  But we shall arrange something.”  She might have resented his tone.  She might have impulsively defended herself.  But she did not.  She accepted his attitude with unreserved benevolence.  Her gaze was marvellously sympathetic.

“I can’t make out what your father’s got against me,” said George angrily, building his vexation on her benevolence.  “What have I done, I should like to know.”

“It’s simply because you lived there all that time without him knowing we were engaged.  He says if he’d known he would never have let you stay there a day.”  She smiled, mournfully, forgivingly, excusingly.

“But it’s preposterous!”

“Oh!  It is.”

“And how does he behave to you?  Is he treating you decently?”

“Oh!  Fairly.  You see, he’s got a lot to get over.  And he’s most frightfully upset about—­his wife.  Well, you saw him yourself, didn’t you?”

“That’s no reason why he should treat you badly.”

“But he doesn’t, George!”

“Oh!  I know!  I know!  Do you think I don’t know?  He’s not even decent to you.  I can hear it in your voice.  Why should you go back and live with him if he isn’t prepared to appreciate it?”