about at her knick-knacks—­she would like to look in at the door a moment to see what he was doing.  Of course he was here to see her, and all the business was a pretext.  As she sat a moment upon the edge of her bed reflecting what to put on, she had a little pang that she had been doing him injustice in her thought.  But it was only for an instant.  He was here.  She was not in the least flurried.  Indeed, her mental processes were never clearer than when she settled upon her simple toilet, made as it was in every detail with the sure instinct of a woman who dresses for her lover.  Heavens! what a miserable day it had been, what a rebellious day!  He ought to be punished for it somehow.  Perhaps the rose she put in her hair was part of the punishment.  But he should not see how happy she was; she would be civil, and just a little reserved; it was so like a man to make a woman wait all day and then think he could smooth it all over simply by appearing.

But somehow in Henderson’s presence these little theories of conduct did not apply.  He was too natural, direct, unaffected, his pleasure in being with her was so evident!  He seemed to brush aside the little defenses and subterfuges.  There was this about him that appeared to her admirable, and in contrast with her own hesitating indirection, that whatever he wanted—­money, or position, or the love of woman—­he went straight to his object with unconsciousness that failure was possible.  Even in walking across the grounds in the soft sunset light, and chatting easily, their relations seemed established on a most natural basis, and Margaret found herself giving way to the simple enjoyment of the hour.  She was not only happy, but her spirits rose to inexpressible gayety, which ran into the humor of badinage and a sort of spiritual elation, in which all things seemed possible.  Perhaps she recognized in herself, what Henderson saw in her.  And with it all there was an access of tenderness for her aunt, the dear thing whose gentle life appeared so colorless.

I had never seen Margaret so radiant as at the dinner; her high spirits infected the table, and the listening and the talking were of the best that the company could give.  I remembered it afterwards, not from anything special that was said, but from its flow of high animal spirits, and the electric responsive mood everyone was in; no topic carried too far, and the chance seriousness setting off the sparkling comments on affairs.  Henderson’s talk had the notable flavor of direct contact with life, and very little of the speculative and reflective tone of Morgan’s, who was always generalizing and theorizing about it.  He had just come from the West, and his off-hand sketches of men had a special cynicism, not in the least condemnatory, mere good-natured acceptance, and in contrast to Morgan’s moralizing and rather pitying cynicism.  It struck me that he did not believe in his fellows as much as Morgan did; but I fancied that Margaret only saw in his attitude a tolerant knowledge of the world.