"I am not so sure of that," said Mr. Adair, who seemed to be in low spirits. "Look at my two sisters, and lots of other girls. How many men has Margaret refused? She will take up with some crooked stick at last."
He went out without waiting for his wife's reply. Lady Caroline, harassed in mind and considerably weakened of late in body, sat still and shed a few silent tears. She was angry with him, and yet she shared his apprehensions. Was it possible that their lovely Margaret was turning out a social failure? To have Margaret at home, fading, ageing, growing into an old maid like the sisters of Reginald Adair, that was not to be thought of for a moment.
Meanwhile Margaret was taking her fate in her own hands.
She was at that very moment standing in the conservatory opposite a tall, dark man, who, hat in hand, looked at her expectantly as if he wished her to open the conversation. She had never made a fairer picture than she did just then. She was dressed in white, and the exquisite fairness of her head and face was thrown into strong relief by the dark background of fronded fern and thickly matted creeper with which the wall behind her was overgrown. Her face was slightly bent, and her hands hung clasped before her. To her visitor, who was indeed Sir Philip Ashley, she appeared more beautiful than ever. But his eye, as it rested upon her, though attentive, was indifferent and cold.
"You sent for me, I think?" he said politely, finding that she did not speak.
"Yes." Margaret's voice was very low. "I hope you did not mind my writing that little note?"
"Mind? Not at all. If there is anything I can do for you——?"
"It is not that I want you to do anything," said Margaret, whose self-possession, not easily disturbed, was now returning to her. "It was simply that I had something to say."
Sir Philip bowed. His role was that of a listener, it appeared.
"When I was in England before," Margaret went on, this time with some effort, "you found fault with me——"