He began to walk home, turning over his discoveries in his thoughts, when he suddenly came to a dead halt.
“By George!” he said out loud; “I’ll go back and have it out with her at once. I’ve had enough of this shillyshally.”
He turned and strode off in the direction of Cheyne Walk. In a few minutes he was standing at the familiar door.
“Will you ask Miss—Miss Burnside if she can see me for one moment?” he said to the servant “I have forgotten something she wished me to do for her,” he added in a mumble.
Then he was taken into the boudoir, and presently Margaret appeared, still in her bonnet and furs.
“I couldn’t help coming back, Margaret,” he said, as soon as she entered the room. “I want to tell you that it is all right, that you needn’t think—I mean, that I know all about it, and that there is nothing, nothing to prevent us—I mean» Margaret, if you really care for me—”
Then he came to a dead stop.
It was not a very easy situation. Barton could not exactly say to Margaret, “My dear girl, you need not worry yourself about Maitland. He does not care a pin for you; he’ll be delighted at being released. He is in love with Mrs. St. John Deloraine.”
That would have been a statement both adequate and explicit; but it could not have been absolutely flattering to Margaret, and it would have been exceedingly unfair to her hostess.
The girl came forward to the table, and stood with her hand on it, looking at Barton. She did not help him out in any way; her attitude was safe, but embarrassing.