“I don’t wish to hear anything,” says Margaret with suspicious haste.

“But I wish you to hear it.  I think it bad to have things sprung upon one unawares.  Now listen.  ’For the nine hundred and ninetieth time, my beloved Margaret, I implore you on my bended knees to make me a happy man!’ You remember it now?”

“No, indeed; I never heard such an absurd speech in my life.”

“That’s the second story you’ve told to-day,” says Mr. Gower, regarding her with gentle sorrow.

“Oh, don’t be stupid!” says Margaret.  “Tell me what I want to know; about Marian.  I am sorry if there really has occurred a breach between her and my aunt.”

“There is little doubt about that!  What a born orator is a woman!” says Mr. Gower, with deep enthusiasm.  “Not one woman, mind you, but every woman.  What command of language is theirs!  I assure you if Mr. Goldstone had heard Mrs. Bethune on the subject of the Dowager Lady Rylton to-day, he would have given her a place in the Cabinet upon the spot.  She would carry all before her in the House of Commons; we should have Home Rule for Ireland in twenty-four hours.”

“Perhaps she wouldn’t have voted for it,” says Margaret, laughing.

“You bet!” says Mr. Gower.  “Any way, there’s a row on between her and Lady Rylton.  The hatchet that has been buried for so long is dug up again, and it is now war to the knife between them.”

“But what is to become of Marian?” asks Margaret anxiously, whose kind heart bleeds for all sad souls.

“She’s going to marry a Russian.  A nobody—­but lots of money.  Best thing she could do, too,” says Gower, speaking the last words hurriedly, as he sees the door open and Margaret rise to receive her new visitor.

The fresh arrival is Mrs. Chichester, exquisitely arrayed in a summery costume of apple-green.  It suits her eyes, which are greener than ever to-day, and sparkling.  Her whole air, indeed, is full of delightful vivacity.  There is a verve, a brightness, about her that communicates itself to her audience.  She looks taller, thinner than usual.

“Such news!” cries she, in her clear, sharp voice.  “Jack is coming home next month!”

“Jack?” questions Margaret.

“Yes, Jack.  Jack Chichester—­my husband, don’t you know?”

At this a stricken silence falls upon her listeners.  They all try to look as if they had been accustomed to think of Jack Chichester as an old and bosom friend.  They also try (and this is even harder) not to look at Marryatt.  As for him, he has forgotten that there is anyone to look at him.  His foolish, boyish eyes are fixed on Mrs. Chichester.

“Yes, really,” goes on that somewhat flighty young person.  “No wonder you are all surprised.  He has been so long away that I expect you thought he wasn’t anywhere. I did almost.  Well, he’s coming now, any way, and that’s a blessing.  You’ll all like him, I can tell you.”