Margaret’s unhappy eyes once more glance towards the screen.  It is shaking now—­ominously.

“Of course!  Of course!  We all know that,” says she, her eyes on the screen, her mind nowhere.  She has not the least idea of the words she has chosen.  She had meant only to pacify him, to avert the catastrophe if possible:  she had spoken timidly, enthusiastically, fatally.  The screen now seems to quiver to its fall.  An earthquake has taken possession of it, apparently—­an earthquake in an extremely advanced stage.

Oh, those girls, and their promises about their fingers and their ears!

“I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stay, Maurice,” says she hurriedly.  “But—­but I’m not well:  I, too, have a headache—­a sort of neuralgia, you know.”

“You seem pretty well, however,” says Sir Maurice, regarding her curiously.

“Oh, I dare say,” impatiently.  “But I’m not.  I’m ill.  I tell you this sudden attack of influenza is overpowering me, and—­it’s infectious, my dear Maurice.  It is really.  They all say so—­the very cleverest doctors; and I should never forgive myself if you took it—­and, besides——­”

“You can’t be feeling very bad,” says Maurice slowly.  “Your colour is all right.”

“Ah!  That is what is so deceptive about it,” says Margaret eagerly.  “One looks well, even whilst one is almost dying.  I assure you these sudden attacks of—­of toothache”—­wildly—­“are most trying.  They take so much out of one.”

“They must,” says Maurice gravely.  “So many attacks, and all endured at the same time, would shake the constitution of an annuitant.  Headache, neuralgia, influenza, toothache!  You have been greatly afflicted.  Are you sure you feel no symptoms of hydrophobia?”

“Maurice——­”

“No?  So glad of that!  My dear girl, why are you so anxious to get rid of me?”

“Anxious to get rid of you?  What an absurd idea!”

“Well, if not that, what on earth do you mean?”

“I have told you!  I have a headache.”

“Like Lady Rylton.  The fact is, Margaret,” says he, turning upon her wrathfully, “she has bound you down not to listen to a word I can say in my own defence.  The last day I was here you were very different.  But I can see she has been at work since, and is fast prejudicing you against me.  I call that most unfair.  I don’t blame you, though I think you might give half an hour to a cousin and an old friend—­one who was your friend long before ever she saw you.  You think the right is all on her side; but is it?  Now I put it fairly to you. Is it?"

Margaret is quaking.

“My dear Maurice—­I—­you know how I feel for you—­for”—­with a frantic glance at the screen—­“for both of you, but——­”

“Pshaw! that is mere playing with the subject.  Do you mean to say you have given up even your honest opinion to her?  You must know that it is not right for a wife to refuse to live with her husband.  Come”—­vehemently—­“you must know that.”