Lady Caroline knew the value of an adroit interruption. She had checked the flow of Margaret's indignation for the moment, and was well aware that the girl would not probably begin her speech in quite the same tone a second time. At the same time she saw that she had given her daughter a momentary advantage. Margaret did not reseat herself after handing her mother the fan—she remained standing, a pale, slender figure, somewhat impressive in the shadows of the half-darkened room, with hands clasped and head slightly lifted as if in solemn protest.
"Mamma," she began, in a somewhat subdued voice, "I must tell you. Mr. Brand spoke to me before he wrote to papa. I told him to write."
Lady Caroline put her eye-glass and looked curiously at her daughter. "You told him to write, my dear child? And how did that come about? Don't you know that it was equivalent to accepting him?"
"Yes, mamma. And I did accept him."
"My dear Margaret!" The tone was that of pitying contempt. "You must have been out of your senses! Well, we can easily rectify the matter—that is one good thing. Why, my darling, when did he find time to speak to you? At Lady Ashley's?"
"In the park, near the forget-me-not brook," murmured Margaret, with downcast eyes.
"He met you there?"
"Yes."
"More than once? And you allowed him to meet you? Oh, Margaret!"
Lady Caroline's voice was admirably managed. The gradual surprise, shocked indignation, and reproach of her tones made the tears come to Margaret's eyes.