Margaret said never a word, but covered her head with her veil and glided noiselessly away, leaving Claudius with his white face and staring eyes to the contemplation of what he had done.  And she went below and sat in her stateroom and tried to think it all over.  She was angry, she felt sure.  She was angry at Claudius and half angry at herself—­at least she thought so.  She was disappointed, she said, in the man, and she did not mean to forgive him.  Besides, in a yacht, with a party of six people, where there was absolutely no escape possible, it was unpardonable.  He really ought not to have done it.  Did he think—­did he flatter himself—­that if she had expected he was going to act just like all the rest of them she would have treated him as she had?  Did he fancy his well-planned declaration would flatter her?  Could he not see that she wanted to consider him always as a friend, that she thought she had found at last what she had so often dreamed of—­a friendship proof against passion?  It was so common, so commonplace.  It was worse, for it was taking a cruel advantage of the narrow limits within which they were both confined.  Besides, he had taken advantage of her kindness to plan a scene which he knew would surprise her out of herself.  She ought to have spoken strongly and sharply and made him suffer for his sin while he was yet red-handed.  And instead, what had she done?  She had merely said very meekly that “it was not right,” and had sought safety in a hasty retreat.

She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair, that was as the thickness of night spun fine.  And as she drew out the thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment.  Then she leaned back and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner.  It was the book they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the place.  Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand, looked at it a moment without opening it.  Then she hid it out of sight and sat down again.  The action had been almost unconscious, but now she thought about it, and she did not like what she had done.  Angry with him and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear the sight of the volume on the table.  Was it possible she had cared enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at its sudden termination?  She hardly knew—­perhaps so.  So many men had made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.