“Mr. Bellingham,” she said suddenly, “I trust you will always be my friend—­will you not?” The old gentleman paused in his descent from the carriage, and took the hand she offered.

“Indeed I will, my dear child,” he said very seriously.  Then he bent his knee to the sill of the door and kissed her fingers, and was gone.  No one ever resented Mr. Bellingham’s familiarity, for it was rare and honest of its kind.  Besides, he was old enough to be her grandfather, in spite of his pretty speeches and his graceful actions.

Margaret passed a sleepless night.  Her anger with Mr. Barker had not been so much the mere result of the words he had spoken, though she would have resented his sneer about Claudius sharply enough under any circumstances.  It was rather that to her keen intelligence, rendered still more acute by her love for the Doctor, the whole scene constituted a revelation.  By that wonderful instinct which guides women in the most critical moments of their lives, she saw at last the meaning of Barker’s doings, of his silence concerning Claudius, and of his coolness with the latter before he had got rid of him.  She saw Barker at the bottom of the plot to send Claudius to Europe; she saw him in all the efforts made by the Duke and Barker to keep Claudius and herself apart on board the yacht; she saw his hand in it all, and she understood for the first time that this man, whom she had of late permitted to be so much with her, was her worst enemy, while aspiring to be her lover.  The whole extent of his faithlessness to Claudius came before her, as she remembered that it had doubtless been to serve the Doctor that Barker had obtained an introduction to her at Baden; that he had done everything to throw them together, devoting himself to Miss Skeat, in a manner that drove that ancient virgin to the pinnacle of bliss and despair, while leaving Claudius free field to make love to herself.  And then he had suddenly turned and made up his mind that he should have her for his own wife.  And her anger rose higher and hotter as she thought of it.

Then she went over the scene of the evening at Mrs. Van Sueindell’s house—­how she had not listened and not understood, until she was so suddenly roused to the consciousness of what he was saying—­how she had faced him, and, in the inspiration of the moment, had boldly told him that she loved his rival.  In that thought she found satisfaction, as well she might, for her love had been put to the test, and had not failed her.

“I am glad I said it,” she murmured to herself, and fell asleep.  Poor Claudius, far away over the sea, what a leap his heart would have given could he have known what she had done, and that she was glad of it.