It seemed improbable that Margaret Edes in her wisteria costume could be speaking.  Annie regarded her with almost horror.  She pitied her, yet she could not understand.  Margaret had done something of which she herself was absolutely incapable.  She had the right to throw the stone.  She looked at a sinner whose sin was beyond her comprehension.  She pitied the evident signs of distress, but her pity, although devoid of anger, was, in spite of herself, coldly wondering.  Moreover, Margaret had been guilty in the eyes of the girl of a much worse sin than the mere thievery of her book; she had murdered love.  Annie had loved Margaret greatly.  No, she loved her no longer, since the older woman had actually blasphemed against the goddess whom the girl had shrined.  Had Margaret stolen from another, it would have made no difference.  The mere act had destroyed herself as an image of love.  Annie, especially now that she was so happy, cared nothing for the glory of which she had been deprived.  She had, in truth, never had much hunger for fame, especially for herself.  She did not care when she thought how pleased her lover would have been and her relatives, but already the plan for another book was in her brain, for the child was a creator, and no blow like this had any lasting power over her work.  What she considered was Margaret’s revelation of herself as something else than Margaret, and what she did resent bitterly was being forced into deception in order to shield her.  She was in fact hard, although she did not know it.  Her usually gentle nature had become like adamant before this.  She felt unlike herself as she said bitterly: 

“People do not always tell ministers, and you cannot tell Mr. von Rosen, Margaret.  I forbid it.  Go home and keep still.”

“I cannot bear it.”

“You must bear it.”

“They are going to give me a dinner, the Zenith Club,” said Margaret.

“You will have to accept it.”

“I cannot, Annie Eustace, of what do you think me capable?  I am not as bad as you think.  I cannot and will not accept that dinner and make the speech which they will expect and hear all the congratulations which they will offer.  I cannot.”

“You must accept the dinner, but I don’t see that you need make the speech,” said Annie, who was herself aghast over such extremity of torture.

“I will not,” said Margaret.  She was very pale and her lips were a tight line.  Her eyes were opaque and lustreless.  She was in reality suffering what a less egotistical nature could not even imagine.  All her life had Margaret Edes worshipped and loved Margaret Edes.  Now she had done an awful thing.  The falling from the pedestal of a friend is nothing to hurling oneself from one’s height of self-esteem and that she had done.  She stood, as it were, over the horrible body of her once beautiful and adored self.  She was not actually remorseful and that made it all the worse.  She