Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather
promised well, and the outline of the castle mound grew
clearer each moment that Margaret watched it. Presently she
saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble gold, and
charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house
gathered itself together and fell over the garden. A cat
looked up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river
appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its
overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill, which
cut off its upper reaches.
Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that
she loved it, but it was rather its romantic tension that
held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had caught
glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to
England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills,
thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but
the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she
thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and
of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life.
Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish
had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a
friend of her father's, and so knew what to find in her.
She liked him. He would introduce her to the town. While,
on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she
only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county
families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was
Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she
doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county
families when they did call, she was content.
Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They
were going for a morning dip, and a servant followed them
with their bathing-dresses. She had meant to take a stroll
herself before breakfast, but saw that the day was still
sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their
contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed
could not be found. Charles stood by the riverside with
folded hands, tragical, while the servant shouted, and was
misunderstood by another servant in the garden. Then came a
difficulty about a spring-board, and soon three people were
running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders
and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If
Margaret wanted to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if
Tibby thought paddling would benefit his ankles, he paddled;
if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in the dark.
But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe
without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling
and the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream.
Had they found the life of the body after all? Could not
the men whom they despised as milksops beat them, even on
their own ground?
She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should
be in her day--no worrying of servants, no appliances,
beyond good sense. Her reflections were disturbed by the
quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was
now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning,
dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation.
Charles looked round, and though completely attired in
indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more.
"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then
became unintelligible.
"What's that?"
It sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack back--"
"I can't hear."
"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"
Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a
visit would be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was
hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was dancing with one
of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring
yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they
sang, and the dog barked.
Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction.
She could not feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps
something was missing in her equipment.
Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we
would rag just then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.
Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke
little, and was, in Margaret's eyes, the only member of
their party who dodged emotion successfully. She could not
suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his daughter
or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact,
only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the
comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set
her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out
the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment's
awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places.
"Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the
side-board!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a
sort--the sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves
even more situations at Board meetings. Henry treated a
marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his
eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting? Love,
where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.
After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It
was always best to approach him formally. She asked for the
interview, because he was going on to shoot grouse tomorrow,
and she was returning to Helen in town.
"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the
time. What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"I was afraid something had gone wrong."
"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."
Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at
the lych-gate. She heard him with interest. Her surface
could always respond to his without contempt, though all her
deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had
abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the
more she let herself love him, the more chance was there
that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as this,
when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their
future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would
surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting
of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the
tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single
blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She
loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness.
Whether he droned trivialities, as today, or sprang kisses
on her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond.
"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't
we walk to the church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but
the rest of us might very well go on first, and that would
mean fewer carriages."
"One can't have ladies walking through the Market
Square. The Fussells wouldn't like it; they were awfully
particular at Charles's wedding. My--she--one of our party
was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round
the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but the Colonel
made a great point of it."
"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"Why not?"
She knew why not, but said that she did not know.
He then announced that, unless she had anything special
to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and they went off
together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little
inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country house. They
clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after
room, and scaring unknown maids from the performance of
obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in readiness
when they came back from church, and tea would be served in
the garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious
people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they were
paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were
the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up
into nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with
pig-tails. His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he
said: "By your leave; let me pass, please." Henry asked him
where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they
did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the
band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee,
and who were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came
from the kitchen, mingled with cries. Margaret knew what
had happened there, for it happened at Wickham Place. One
of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was
throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they
came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed
Margaret down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked.
She, who kept all her wine at the bottom of the
linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We shall
never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were
suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She
felt as if she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving.
Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be
no small business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate
such an establishment. She must remain herself, for his
sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the
husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for
reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a
man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power
of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than
its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She
was determined to create new sanctities among these hills.
After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then
came the wedding, which seemed a small affair when compared
with the preparations for it. Everything went like one
o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out of space, and was
waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped
the ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie's
train, or cried. In a few minutes--the clergymen performed
their duty, the register was signed, and they were back in
their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by the
lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been
married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent
all the time on other business.
There were more documents to sign at the house, and the
breakfast to eat, and then a few more people dropped in for
the garden party. There had been a great many refusals, and
after all it was not a very big affair--not as big as
Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of
red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was
proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than
this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only
someone had been upset! But this wedding had gone off so
particularly well--"quite like a Durbar" in the opinion of
Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.
So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and
bridegroom drove off, yelling with laughter, and for the
second time the sun retreated towards the hills of Wales.
Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in
the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said
that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She
felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly
she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and
had made a special point of kowtowing to the men. They were
breaking camp this evening: only the Warringtons and quiet
child would stay the night, and the others were already
moving towards the house to finish their packing. "I think
it did go off well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out
of the motor, I'm thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am
so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the
guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all
remember that we have no practical person among us, except
my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a large scale."
"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it
would be better to put everything into the hands of Harrod's
or Whiteley's, or even to go to some hotel."
"You desire a hotel?"
"Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere with you. No
doubt you want to be married from your old home."
"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want
my new. Isn't it a perfect evening--"
"The Alexandrina isn't bad--"
"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the
threads of smoke that were issuing from their chimneys, and
ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels of grey.
"It's off Curzon Street."
"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."
Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold.
Just where the river rounded the hill the sun caught it.
Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its precious liquid
was pouring towards them past Charles's bathing-shed. She
gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they
moved back to the house, she could not recognize the faces
of people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was
preceding them.
"Who are those people?" she asked.
"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers."
"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding
presents."
"I'm not at home yet to townees."
"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."
He thanked her.
Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed
that these were unpunctual guests, who would have to be
content with vicarious civility, since Evie and Charles were
gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She
assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the
group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated
by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a
terror in their nursery days.
"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?"
Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then
she bore forward furiously.
"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"
"Who? Why have you come?"
"The Basts."
"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"
"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his
bank. Yes, he's done for. We upper classes have ruined
him, and I suppose you'll tell me it's the battle of life.
Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train."
"Helen, are you mad?"
"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought
them. I'll stand injustice no longer. I'll show up the
wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of
impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we're too
slack to do ourselves."
"Have you actually brought two starving people from
London to Shropshire, Helen?"
Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her
hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train,"
she said.
"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know
it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won't have such
theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she
repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's
wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've a
perverted notion of philanthropy. Look"--she indicated the
house--"servants, people out of the windows. They think
it's some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, 'Oh no, it's
only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours,
whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.'"
"Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen,
ominously calm.
"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath
was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry
about them, but it beats me why you've brought them here, or
why you're here yourself.
"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."
Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was
determined not to worry Henry.
"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on
seeing him."
"Yes, tomorrow."
"I knew it was our last chance."
"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to
control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do
you take of it?"
"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.
Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy,
and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid
that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew
that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night,
had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them
with a dinner and breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at
Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and
when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn't
go. But she, half mesmerized, had obeyed. The lady had
told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had
accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a
railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold,
and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of
expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an
awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And
perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better
among a lot of flowers.
"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in
answer to Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind
to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I
wondered--why, I wondered whether--"
"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion
again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful
business. A bright evening's work that was on Chelsea Embankment."
Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.
"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we
suggested it was a bad concern, didn't you?"
"That's right."
"And went into a bank instead?"
"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced
their staff after he had been in a month, and now he's
penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are
directly to blame."
"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.
"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing
matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If
you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to
account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake."
"I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.
"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put
you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so.
It's too late to get to town, but you'll find a comfortable
hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you'll
be my guests there."
"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard.
"You're very kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but
you make me miserable. I seem no good at all."
"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?"
Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than
we're worth. We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds
already to get work for us, and they never will. There's
nothing we're good enough to do."
"We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather
conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You're
only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good
night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill,
if you prefer it."
But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men
see clearly. "You don't know what you're talking about," he
said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at
one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my
groove, and I've got out of it. I could do one particular
branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to
command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss
Schlegel. One's thoughts about this and that are nothing.
Your money, too, is nothing, if you'll understand me. I
mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job,
it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others.
Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end
they fall over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole
world pulling. There always will be rich and poor."
He ceased.
"Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I
don't know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr.
Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as
I say, I don't know what to do, but I undertake to do what I
can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a
sandwich, Mrs. Bast."
They moved to a long table behind which a servant was
still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee,
claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact: their overfed
guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought
she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering
together and had a few more words with Helen.
She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's
worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible."
"No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."
"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that
attitude, I'll do nothing. No doubt you're right logically,
and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about
Henry. Only, I won't have it. So choose.
Helen looked at the sunset.
"If you promise to take them quietly to the George, I
will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there
is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I
have no use for justice. If it was only a question of
money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and
that we can't give him, but possibly Henry can."
"It's his duty to," grumbled Helen.
"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the
characters of various people whom we know, and how, things
being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr.
Wilcox hates being asked favours: all business men do. But
I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I
want to make things a little better."
"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly. "
"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor
creatures! but they look tried." As they parted, she
added: "I haven't nearly done with you, though, Helen. You
have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over it. You
have less restraint rather than more as you grow older.
Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives."
She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting
down: these physical matters were important. "Was it
townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile.
"You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down
beside him. "It's all right now, but it was my sister."
"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she
refused the invitation. I thought she despised weddings."
"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've
bundled her off to the George."
Inherently hospitable, he protested.
"No; she has two of her proteges with her, and must keep
with them."
"Let 'em all come."
"My dear Henry, did you see them?"
"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly.
"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a
sea-green and salmon bunch?"
"What! are they out beanfeasting?"
"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I
want to talk to you about them."
She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a
Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and
to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took
the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No
time like the present."
"Shall I?"
"If it isn't a long story."
"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of
it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office."
"What are his qualifications?"
"I don't know. He's a clerk."
"How old?"
"Twenty-five, perhaps."
"What's his name?"
"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that
they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had
not been a successful meeting.
"Where was he before?"
"Dempster's Bank."
"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing.
"They reduced their staff."
"All right; I'll see him."
It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the
day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to
rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had
said: "The woman who can't influence her husband to vote the
way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had
winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though
pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it
by the methods of the harem.
"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I
don't know whether he's qualified."
"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be
taken as a precedent."
"No, of course--of course--"
"I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would
suffer."
"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a
special case."
"Proteges always are."
She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra
touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up.
How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen
thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual
between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning
with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare
seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it,
and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when
Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into
air, into thin air.
"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells
will just be starting."
On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry
would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while
Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of
salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has
been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river
and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled
artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was
imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle
ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare
between the Anglo Saxon and the Kelt, between things as they
are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was
retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the
eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the
earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended
the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having
her share.
To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the
husband and Helen had left her there to finish her meal
while they went to engage rooms. Margaret found this woman
repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an
overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call
at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the
abyss--odours the more disturbing because they were
involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she
sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne glass
in the other, doing no harm to anybody.
"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.
"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I
can't have her in my garden in this state."
"Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that
she was going to marry him, he had grown particular. He
discountenanced risque conversations now.
Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which
gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball.
"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he
said sharply.
Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"
"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologized
Margaret. "Il est tout a fait different."
"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.
Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I can't congratulate you
on your proteges," he remarked.
"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"
"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up
her skirts.
Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you
are." She yawned. "There now, I love you."
"Henry, I am awfully sorry."
"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly
that she feared he was ill. He seemed more scandalized than
the facts demanded.
"To have brought this down on you."
"Pray don't apologize."
The voice continued.
"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret
innocently. "Has she ever seen you before?"
"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen?
He's serving you like me, my dear. These boys! You
wait--Still we love 'em."
"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.
Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what
it is all about," she said. "Let's come in."
But he thought she was acting. He thought he was
trapped. He saw his whole life crumbling. "Don't you
indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow me to congratulate
you on the success of your plan."
"This is Helen's plan, not mine."
"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well
thought out. I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You
are quite right--it was necessary. I am a man, and have
lived a man's past. I have the honour to release you from
your engagement."
Still she could not understand. She knew of life's
seamy side as a theory; she could not grasp it as a fact.
More words from Jacky were necessary--words unequivocal, undenied.
"So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She
stopped herself from saying more.
"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready
to start in the hall.
"We were saying--Henry and I were just having the
fiercest argument, my point being--" Seizing his fur coat
from a footman, she offered to help him on. He protested,
and there was a playful little scene.
"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.
"Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!"
The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's much
to forgive.
He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an
interval. Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent
on earlier by the branch--line. Still chattering, still
thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess,
the guests were home away.
Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?"
"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.
"When, please?"
"Why?"
"When, please?"
"Ten years ago."
She left him without a word. For it was not her
tragedy: it was Mrs. Wilcox's.
