“Let me see,” laughed Margaret; “it was Napoleon—­wasn’t it?—­who used to talk that way?”

“And you think I’m imitating him, eh?”

“You do suggest it very often.”

“I despise him.  A wicked, little, dago charlatan who was put out of business as soon as he was really opposed.  No!—­no Waterloo for me! ...  How’s your mother?  She got sick while I was talking to her and had to leave the room.”

“Yes, I know,” said Margaret.

“You ought to make her take more exercise.  Don’t let her set foot in a carriage.  We are animals, and nature has provided that animals shall walk to keep in health.  Walking and things like that are the only sane modes of getting about.  Everything aristocratic is silly.  As soon as we begin to rear and strut we stumble into our graves—­But it’s no use to talk to you about that.  I came on another matter.”

Margaret’s lips tightened; she hastily veiled her eyes.

“I’ve taken a great fancy to you,” Craig went on.  “That’s why I’ve wasted so much time on you.  What you need is a husband—­a good husband.  Am I not right?”

Margaret, pale, said faintly:  “Go on.”

“You know I’m right.  Every man and every woman ought to marry.  A home—­children—­that’s life.  The rest is all incidental—­trivial.  Do you suppose I could work as I do if it wasn’t that I’m getting ready to be a family man?  I need love—­sympathy—­tenderness.  People think I’m hard and ambitious.  But they don’t know.  I’ve got a heart, overflowing with tenderness, as some woman’ll find out some day.  But I didn’t come to talk about myself.”

Margaret made a movement of surprise—­involuntary, startled.

“No, I don’t always talk about myself,” Craig went on; “and I’ll let you into a secret.  I don’t think about myself nearly so much as many of these chaps who never speak of themselves.  However, as I was saying, I’m going to get you a husband.  Now, don’t you get sick, as your mother did.  Be sensible.  Trust me.  I’ll see you through—­and that’s more than any of these cheap, shallow people round you would do.”

“Well?” said Margaret.

“You and Grant Arkwright are going to marry.  Now don’t pretend—­ don’t protest.  It’s the proper thing and it must be done.  You like him?”

As Craig was looking sharply at her she felt she must answer.  She made a vague gesture of assent.

“Of course!” said Craig.  “If you and he led a natural life you’d have been married long ago.  Now, I’m going to dine with him to-night.  I’ll lay the case before him.  He’ll be out here after you to-morrow.”

Margaret trembled with anger.  Two bright spots burned in her cheeks.  “You wouldn’t dare!” she exclaimed breathlessly.  “No, not even you!”

“And why not?” demanded Craig calmly.  “Do you suppose I’m going to stand idly by, and let two friends of mine, two people I’m as fond of as I am of you two creatures, make fools of yourselves?  No.  I shall bring you together.”