Formerly Margaret’s light sarcasms, even when the struck him point-blank, used to amuse Richard, but now he winced at being merely grazed.

Margaret went on:  “But it’s not a bit necessary to be circular or instructive—­with me.  I am interested in trivial matters,—­in the weather, in my spring hat, in what you are going to do next, and the like.  One must occupy one’s self with something.  But you, Richard, nowadays you seem interested in nothing, and have nothing whatever to say.”

Poor Richard!  He had a great deal to say, but he did not know how, nor if it were wise to breathe it.  Just three little words, murmured or whispered, and the whole conditions would be changed.  With those fateful words uttered, what would be Margaret’s probable attitude, and what Mr. Sclocum’s?  Though the line which formerly drew itself between employer and employee had grown faint with time, it still existed in Richard’s mind, and now came to the surface with great distinctness, like a word written in sympathetic ink.  If he spoke, and Margaret was startled or offended, then there was an end to their free, unembarrassed intercourse,—­perhaps an end to all intercourse.  By keeping his secret in his breast he at least secured the present.  But that was to risk everything.  Any day somebody might come and carry Margaret off under his very eyes.  As he reflected on this, the shadow of John Dana, the son of the rich iron-manufacturer, etched itself sharply upon Richard’s imagination.  Within the week young Dana had declared in the presence of Richard that “Margaret Slocum was an awfully nice little thing,” and the Othello in Richard’s blood had been set seething.  Then his thought glanced from John Dana to Mr. Pinkham and the Rev. Arthur Langly, both of whom were assiduous visitors at the house.  The former had lately taken to accompanying Margaret on the piano with his dismal little flute, and the latter was perpetually making a moth of himself about her class at Sunday-school.

Richard stood with the edge of his chisel resting idly upon the plaster mold in front of him, pondering these things.  Presently he heard Margaret’s voice, as if somewhere in the distance, saying,—­

“I have not finished yet, Richard.”

“Go on,” said Richard, falling to work again with a kind of galvanic action.  “Go on, please.”

“I have a serious grievance.  Frankly, I am hurt by your preoccupation and indifference, your want of openness or cordiality,—­I don’t know how to name it.  You are the only person who seems to be unaware that I escaped a great danger a month ago.  I am obliged to remember all the agreeable hours I have spent in the studio to keep off the impression that during my illness you got used to not seeing me, and that now my presence somehow obstructs your work and annoys you.”

Richard threw his chisel on the bench, and crossed over to the window where Margaret was.

“You are as wrong as you can be,” he said, looking down on her half-lifted face, from which a quick wave of color was subsiding; for the abruptness of Richard’s movement had startled her.