“Not yet,” said Margaret curtly and coldly.  All of a sudden she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

“Rita—­dear Rita!” exclaimed Grant, his own eyes wet, “I know just how you feel.  Am I not suffering, too?  I thought I didn’t care, but I did—­I do.  Rita, it isn’t too late yet—­”

She straightened; dried her eyes.  “Stop that, Grant!” she said peremptorily.  “Stop it!”

His eyes sank.  “I can’t bear to see you suffer.”

“You don’t mean a word of what you’ve just said,” she went on.  “You are all upset, as I am.  You are his friend and mine.”  Defiantly:  “And I love him, and you know I do.”

It was the tone of one giving another something that must be repeated by rote.  “That’s it,” said he, somewhat sullenly, but with no hint of protest.  “I’m all unstrung, like you, and like him.”

“And you will forget that you saw me crying.”

“I’ll never think of it again.”  “Now go and bring him, please.”

He went quickly toward the door.

“Grant!” she cried.  As he turned she rose, advanced with a friendly smile and put out her hand for his.  “Thank you,” she said.  “You have shown yourself our best friend.”

“I meant to be,” he answered earnestly, as he pressed her hand.  “When I pull myself together I think you’ll realize I’m some decenter than I’ve seemed of late.”

Madam Bowker came just as he returned with Craig.  So all attention was concentrated upon the meeting of the two impossibilities.  The old lady took her new relative’s hand with a gracious, queenly smile—­a smile that had the effect both of making him grateful and of keeping him “in his place.”  Said she, “I have been writing out the announcement.”

“Thank you,” was Joshua’s eager, respectful reply.

She gave him the sheet of notepaper she was carrying in her left hand.  It was her own private paper, heavy, quiet, rich, engraved with aristocratic simplicity, most elegant; and most elegant was the handwriting.  “This,” said she, “is to be given out in addition to the formal notice which Grant will send to the newspapers.”

Craig read: 

“Mrs. Bowker announces the marriage of her grand-daughter, Margaret Severence, and Joshua Craig, of Wayne, Minnesota, and Washington, by the Reverend Doctor Scones, at the Waldorf, this morning.  Only a few relatives and Mr. Craig’s friend, Mr. Grant Arkwright, were present.  The marriage occurred sooner than was expected, out of consideration for Mrs. Bowker, as she is very old, and wished it to take place before she left for her summer abroad.”

Craig lifted to the old lady the admiring glance of a satisfied expert in public opinion.  Their eyes met on an equality; for an instant he forgot that she figured in his imagination as anything more than a human being.  “Splendid!” cried he, with hearty enthusiasm.  “You have covered the case exactly.  Grant, telephone for an Associated Press reporter and give him this.”