simply could not evade the dreadful glare of light upon her own imperfections; she who had always thought of herself as perfect, but the glare of knowledge came mostly from her appreciation of the attitude of her friends and lovers toward what she had done.  Suppose she went home and told Wilbur.  Suppose she said, “I did not write that book.  My friend, Annie Eustace, wrote it.  I am a thief, and worse than a thief.”  She knew just how he would look at her, his wife, his Margaret, who had never done wrong in his eyes.  For the first time in her life she was afraid, and yet how could she live and bear such torture and not confess?  Confession would be like a person ill unto death, giving up, and seeking the peace of a sick chamber and the rest of bed and the care of a physician.  She had come to feel like that and yet, confession would be like a fiery torture.  Margaret had in some almost insane fashion come to feel that she might confess to a minister, a man of God, and ease her soul, without more.  And she had never been religious, and would have formerly smiled in serene scorn at her own state of mind.  And here was the other woman whom she had wronged, forbidding her this one little possibility of comfort.

She said again humbly, “Let me tell him, Annie.  He will only think the more of you because you shielded me.”

But Annie was full of scorn which Margaret could not understand since her nature was not so fine.  “Do you think I wish him to?” she said, but in a whisper because she heard voices and footsteps.  “You cannot tell him, Margaret.”

Then Von Rosen and Aunt Harriet, whose eyes were dim with recent sleep, came in sight, and Harriet Eustace, who had not seen Margaret since the club meeting, immediately seized upon her two hands and kissed her and congratulated her.

“You dear, wonderful creature,” she said, “we are all so proud of you.  Fairbridge is so proud of you and as for us, we can only feel honoured that our little Annie has such a friend.  We trust that she will profit by your friendship and we realise that it is such a privilege for her.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret.  She turned her head aside.  It was rather dreadful, and Annie realised it.

Von Rosen stood by smiling.  “I am glad to join in the congratulations,” he said.  “In these days of many books, it is a great achievement to have one singled out for special notice.  I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the book, but shall certainly have it soon.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret again.

“She should give you an autograph copy,” said Harriet Eustace.

“Yes,” said Margaret.  She drew aside Annie and whispered, “I shall tell my husband then.  I shall.”

Then she bade them good afternoon in her usually graceful way; murmured something about a little business which she had with Annie and flitted down the pergola in a cloud of wisteria.

“It does seem wonderful,” said Harriet Eustace, “that she should have written that book.”