“Well,” says he, stopping her.

“Well?” returns she, smiling.

“You have heard?”

“Of what?  Anything new?” curiously.  The very best women are curious.

“Of my engagement; surely she has told you?”

“She?  Who? Marian!"

“No—­no!"

Then the truth comes to her.

“Tita?” she says faintly.

He nods his head; words fail him.

“She told me nothing,” says Margaret, recovering herself.

“Yet I saw you talking together just now.”

“You did indeed.”

“And she said nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what were you talking about?”

“I was advising her to marry no man who did not love her.”

“What an extraordinary piece of advice to give to a girl who, as far as you knew, was not going to be married at all!  What led up to it?”

“Not Tita, certainly.  It was I who led up to it.”

“And why?”

“Do you think I have been blind and deaf, Maurice, during the past fortnight?” Miss Knollys almost compels his gaze.  “If you are going to marry this young girl, this child, I hope, I”—­almost passionately—­"hope it will be for her good and yours.”

“Margaret!  What a tone!  You mean something!”

“I do.”  Margaret’s strong face lights up with honest anxiety.  “I mean this!” She takes a step nearer him.  “How is it between you and Marian?”

“Why, how has it been?” asks he, with affected lightness; but a change passes over his face.

“Oh, Maurice, take care!” says his cousin, laying her hand upon his arm.

“Well, if you must have it,” says he, frowning, “all that is over.”

He breaks away from her, frowning still.

It is quite plain to her that she has offended him.  But even as he leaves her he looks back; a sort of grim smile illumines his face.

“I note that in your ‘hoping’ you have put Miss Bolton before me; that is as it should be.  She is a sworn admirer of yours.  Did you know it?”

“No.  But she appeals to me—­I don’t know why—­but I feel that I could love her,” says Margaret, in short sentences as if thinking, and as if a little surprised at herself.  Suddenly she breaks into a more immediate feeling.  “Oh, Maurice, love her too!  Try, try to love her; she is so young.  Her very soul is in your keeping.  Be good to her; she is a mere baby.  If you neglect her, forget her——­”

Maurice casts a queer look at her.

“‘Is thy servant a dog?’” quotes he.

* * * * *

Margaret moves slowly away.  She had, when Maurice met her, been bent on going upstairs to her books and her thoughts; but now she turns backward.  She feels as if she wants something.  Perhaps she finds it—­unconsciously, however—­when she stops before a tall, soldierly-looking man, who, seeing her, comes to meet her with evident pleasure.