"You needn't be bothered with any of us more than you want now," she told him.
"We're never to come in unless you invite us," Margaret gravely assured him.
"A man's lost without his own room," Godfrey remarked; and without doubt he spoke his true feelings.
"I take possession—and I'm not sure I shall let any of you in!" Arthur declared gaily.
"Oh, me, sometimes?" implored Margaret.
"Well, you, sometimes—and perhaps one guinea-pig occasionally!" he promised.
Only a few days before—while Arthur was still at Malvern—Godfrey's case had been heard and had, of course, gone through unopposed. He had performed his part in it with that reserve of quiet dignity which was his in face of things inevitable. Save for a formality—in this instance it was no more—he and Bernadette were quit of one another. The new state of things was definitely established, the family reconstituted on a fresh basis. Little Margaret was now its centre, her happiness and welfare its first preoccupation, the mainspring of its life. No longer harassed by the sense of failure, or afraid of a criticism none the less galling for being conveyed in merry glances, Godfrey dared to respond openly to his little girl's appeal for love. When the child, tutored by Judith's skilful encouragement, made bold to storm the defences of his study and beg his company, she met with a welcome shy still but cordial, with a quiet affection which suited her own youthful gravity. They would wander off together, or busy themselves over Margaret's animals, neither of them saying much—and what little they did say impersonal and matter-of-fact—yet obviously content in their comradeship, liking to be left to it, creating gradually, as the days went by, a little tranquil world of their own, free from incursions and alarms, safe from unexpected calls on them, from having to follow other people's changing moods and adapt themselves to other people's fitful emotions. The little maid grave beyond her years—the timid man shrinking back from the exactions of life—they seemed curiously near of an age together, strangely alike in mind. Day by day they grew more sufficient for one another—not less fond of Judith and of Arthur, but more independent even of their help and company.
"Does she often ask about her mother—about whether she's coming back, and so on?" Arthur enquired of Judith.
"Very seldom, and she's quite content if you say 'Not yet.' But I think it'll be best to tell her the truth soon; then she'll settle down to it—to tell her that her mother isn't coming back, and isn't married to her father any more. You know how easily children accept what they're told; they don't know what's really involved, you see. By the time she's old enough to understand, she'll quite have accepted the position."
"But Bernadette will want to see her, won't she?"