“Georgian A.”

Margaret’s hand that held the letter trembled, and the eyes that read these words were hot with indignation; but she controlled herself into an appearance of calmness as she marched away with it straight to the library.

As she entered, Henderson was seated at his desk, with bowed head and perplexed brows, sorting a pile of papers before him, and making notes.  He did not look up until she came close to him and stood at the end of his desk.  Then, turning his eyes for a moment, and putting out his left hand to her, he said, “Well, what is it, dear?”

“Will you read that?” said Margaret, in a voice that sounded strange in her own ears.

“What?”

“A letter from Aunt Forsythe.”

“Family matter.  Can’t it wait?” said Henderson, going on with his figuring.

“If it can, I cannot,” Margaret answered, in a tone that caused him to turn abruptly and look at her.  He was so impatient and occupied that even yet he did not comprehend the new expression in her face.

“Don’t you see I am busy, child?  I have an engagement in twenty minutes in my office.”

“You can read it in a moment,” said Margaret, still calm.

Henderson took the letter with a gesture of extreme annoyance, ran his eye through it, flung it from him on the table, and turned squarely round in his chair.

“Well, what of it?”

“To ruin poor Mrs. Fletcher and a hundred like her!” cried Margaret, with rising indignation.

“What have I to do with it?  Did I make their investments?  Do you think I have time to attend to every poor duck?  Why don’t people look where they put their money?”

“It’s a shame, a burning shame!” she cried, regarding him steadily.

“Oh, yes; no doubt.  I lost a hundred thousand yesterday; did I whine about it?  If I want to buy anything in the market, have I got to look into every tuppenny interest concerned in it?  If Mrs. Fletcher or anybody else has any complaint against me, the courts are open.  I defy the whole pack!” Henderson thundered out, rising and buttoning his coat—­“the whole pack!”

“And you have nothing else to say, Rodney?” Margaret persisted, not quailing in the least before his indignation.  He had never seen her so before, and he was now too much in a passion to fully heed her.

“Oh, women, women!” he said, taking up his hat, “you have sympathy enough for anybody but your husbands.”  He pushed past her, and was gone without another word or look.

Margaret turned to follow him.  She would have cried “Stop!” but the word stuck in her throat.  She was half beside herself with rage for a moment.  But he had gone.  She heard the outer door close.  Shame and grief overcame her.  She sat down in the chair he had just occupied.  It was infamous the way Mrs. Fletcher was treated.  And her husband—­her husband was so regardless of it.  If he was not to blame for it, why didn’t he tell her—­why didn’t he explain?  And he had gone away without looking at her.  He had left her for the first time since they were married without kissing her!  She put her head down on the desk and sobbed; it seemed as if her heart would break.  Perhaps he was angry, and wouldn’t come back, not for ever so long.