“But who wanted him to be your husband?” I asked.  “Married women have the oddest habit of going about the world picking out the men they would not like to have married.  Do they need continually to justify themselves?”

“No; they congratulate themselves.  You never can understand.”

“I confess I cannot.  My first thought about an attractive woman whose acquaintance I make is not that I am glad I did not marry her.”

“I dare say not.  You are all inconsistent, you men.  But you are the least so of any man in the world, I do believe.”

It would be difficult to say whether the spring morning seemed more or less glorious to Margaret when she went indoors, but its serenity was gone.

It was like the premonition in nature of a change.  She put the apple blossoms in water and placed the jug on the table, turning it about half a dozen times, moving her head from side to side to get the effect.  When it was exactly right, she said to her aunt, who sat sewing in the bay-window, in a perfectly indifferent tone, “Mr. Fairchild just passed here, and said that Mr. Henderson had come.”

“Ah!” Her aunt did not lift her eyes from her work, or appear to attach the least importance to this tremendous piece of news.  Margaret was annoyed at what seemed to her an assumed indifference.  Her nerves were quivering with the knowledge that he had arrived, that he was in the next house, that he might be here any moment—­the man who had entered into her whole life—­and the announcement was no more to her aunt than if she had said it rained.  She was provoked at herself that she should be so disturbed, yes, annoyed, at his proximity.  She wished he had not come —­not today, at any rate.  She looked about for something to do, and began to rearrange this and that trifle in the sitting-room, which she had perfectly arranged once before in the morning, moving about here and there in a rather purposeless manner, until her aunt looked up and for a moment followed her movements till Margaret left the room.  In her own chamber she sat by the window and tried to think, but there was no orderly mental process; in vain she tried to run over in her mind the past month and all her reflections and wise resolves.  She heard the call of the birds, she inhaled the odor of the new year, she was conscious of all that was gracious and inviting in the fresh scene, but in her sub-consciousness there was only one thought—­he was there, he was coming.  She took up her sewing, but the needle paused in the stitch, and she found herself looking away across the lawn to the hills; she took up a book, but the words had no meaning, read and reread them as she would.  He is there, he is coming.  And what of it?  Why should she be so disturbed?  She was uncommitted, she was mistress of her own actions.  Had she not been coolly judging his conduct?  She despised herself for being so nervous and unsettled.  If he was coming, why did he not come?  Why was he waiting so long?  She arose impatiently and went down-stairs.  There was a necessity of doing something.