Night after night she saw the light in Annie’s windows and she knew what she was doing.  She knew why she was not to be married until next winter.  That book had to be written first.  Poor Annie could not enjoy her romance to the full because of over-work.  The girl lost flesh and Margaret knew why.  Preparing one’s trousseau, living in a love affair, and writing a book, are rather strenuous, when undertaken at the same time.

It was February when Annie and Von Rosen were married and the wedding was very quiet.  Annie had over-worked, but her book was published, and was out-selling The Poor Lady.  It also was published anonymously, but Margaret knew, she knew even from the reviews.  Then she bought the book and read it and was convinced.  The book was really an important work.  The writer had gone far beyond her first flight, but there was something unmistakable about the style to such a jealous reader as Margaret.  Annie had her success after all.  She wore her laurels, although unseen of men, with her orange blossoms.  Margaret saw in every paper, in great headlines, the notice of the great seller.  The best novel for a twelve-month—­The Firm Hand.  Wilbur talked much about it.  He had his election.  He was a Senator, and was quietly proud of it, but nothing mattered to him as much as Margaret’s book.  That meant more than his own success.

“I have read that novel they are talking so much about and it cannot compare with yours,” he told her.  “The publishers ought to push yours a little more.  Do you think I ought to look in on them and have a little heart-to-heart talk?”

Margaret’s face was ghastly.  “Don’t do anything of the sort,” she said.

“Well, I won’t if you don’t want me to, but—­”

“I most certainly don’t want you to.”  Then Margaret never had a day of peace.  She feared lest Wilbur, who seemed nightly more incensed at the flaming notices of The Firm Hand might, in spite of her remonstrances, go to see the publishers, and would they keep the secret if he did?

Margaret continued to live as she had done before.  That was part of the horror.  She dared not resign from the Zenith Club.  However, she came in time to get a sort of comfort from it.  Meeting all those members, presiding over the meetings, became a sort of secret flagellation, which served as a counter irritation, for her tormented soul.  All those women thought well of her.  They admired her.  The acute torture which she derived from her knowledge of herself, as compared with their opinion of her, seemed at times to go a little way toward squaring her account with her better self.  And the club also seemed to rouse within her a keener vitality of her better self.  Especially when the New Year came and Mrs. Slade was elected president in her stead.  Once, Margaret would have been incapable of accepting that situation so gracefully.  She gave a reception to Mrs. Slade in honour of her election, and that