“Shall I call my aunt?” said Margaret, rising also.

“No, I beg; I had something to say that concerns us; that is, that concerns myself.  I couldn’t go away without knowing from you—­that is, without telling you—­”

The color rose in Margaret’s cheek, and she made a movement of embarrassment, and said, with haste:  “Some other time; I beg you will not say—­I trust that I have done nothing that—­”

“Nothing, nothing,” he went on quickly; “nothing except to be yourself; to be the one woman”—­he would not heed her hand raised in a gesture of protest; he stood nearer her now, his face flushed and his eyes eager with determination—­“the one woman I care for.  Margaret, Miss Debree, I love you!”

Her hand that rested on the table trembled, and the hot blood rushed to her face, flooding her in an agony of shame, pleasure, embarrassment, and anger that her face should contradict the want of tenderness in her eyes.  In an instant self-possession came back to her mind, but not strength to her body, and she sank into the chair, and looking up, with only pity in her eyes, said, “I am sorry.”

Lyon stopped; his heart seemed to stand still; the blood left his face; for an instant the sunshine left the world.  It was a terrible blow, the worst a man can receive—­a bludgeon on the head is nothing to it.  He half turned, he looked again for an instant at the form that was more to him than all the world besides, unable to face the dreadful loss, and recovering speech, falteringly said, “Is that all?”

“That is all, Mr. Lyon,” Margaret answered, not looking up, and in a voice that was perfectly steady.

He turned to go mechanically, and passed to the door in a sort of daze, forgetful of all conventionality; but habit is strong, and he turned almost immediately back from the passage.  Margaret was still sitting, with no recognition of his departure.

“I beg you will make my excuses, and say good-by to Miss Forsythe.  I had mentioned it to her.  I thought perhaps she had told you, perhaps—­I should like to know if it is anything about difference in—­in nationality, about family, or—­”

“No, no,” said Margaret; “this could never be anything but a personal question with me.  I—­”

“But you said, ‘some other time:’  Might I ever expect—­”

“No, no; there is no other time; do not go on.  It can only be painful.”

And then, with a forced cheerfulness:  “You will no doubt thank me some day.  Your life must be so different from mine.  And you must not doubt my esteem, my appreciation,” (her sense of justice forced this from her), “my good wishes.  Good-by.”  She gave him her hand.  He held it for a second, and then was gone.

She heard his footstep, rapid and receding.  So he had really gone!  She was not sorry—­no.  If she could have loved him!  She sank back in her chair.