Margaret was left alone, at length, in the little blue-and-white room which had known her as a child and maiden, where she now sat as wife.  For weeks past she had been emotionless.  To-night, with that trenchant command, unanswered except in her heart, a spasm of pain had broken the serenity of her calm, and had left her quivering.

“It is done,” she whispered.

The endless stream of congratulations, meaningless and abhorrent to her, the elaborate refreshments, the warm embraces of old friends had greatly fatigued her.  But she could not rest.  She paced the little room; she passed the beautiful white bridal finery, so neatly folded by the bridesmaids, and she averted her eyes.  She seemed not to hate her mother, nor love her father; she had no interest in her husband.  She was slipping back again into that creature apart from her real self.

The house became very quiet; the snow brushed softly against the windows.

A step in the hall made Margaret pause like a listening deer; a tap sounded lightly on her door; a voice awoke her at last to life and to torture.

“Margaret, may I come in?”

It was Swann’s voice, a little softer than usual, with a subtle eagerness.

“No” answered Margaret, involuntarily.

“I beg your pardon.  I’ll wait.”  Swann’s footsteps died away in the direction of the library.

The spring of a panther was in Margaret’s action as she began to repace the room.  All her blood quickened to the thought suggested by her husband’s soft voice.  In the mirror she saw a crimsoned face and shamed eyes from which she turned away.

All the pain and repression, the fight and bitter resignation and trained indifference of the past months were as if they had never been.  This was her hour of real agony; now was the time to pay the price.  Pride, honor, love never smothered, reserve rooted in the very core of a sensitive woman’s heart, availed nothing.  Once again catching sight of her reflection in the mirror she stopped before it, and crossing her hands on her heaving breast, she regarded herself with scorn.  She was false to her love, she was false to herself, false to the man to whom she had sold herself.  “Oh!  Why did I yield!” she cried.  She was a coward; she belonged to the luxurious class that would suffer anything rather than lose position.  Fallen had she as low as any of them; gold had been the price of her soul.  To keep her position she must marry one man when she loved another.  She cried out in her wretchedness; she felt in her whole being a bitter humiliation; she felt stir in her a terrible tumult.