Coming round the elbow of the rising path, she caught sight of Maggie Dennison sitting in the garden. Mrs. Dennison wore white; her pale, clear-cut profile was towards Marjory; she rested her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her knee, and she was looking on the ground. Softly Marjory drew near. An unopened letter from Harry lay on a little table; the children had begun their mid-day meal in the room, whose open window was but a few feet behind; Mrs. Dennison's thoughts were far away. Marjory stopped short. A stronger buffet of fear, a more overwhelming sense of helplessness, smote her. She understood better why Adela had been driven to do nothing—to look on. She smiled for an instant; the idea put itself so whimsically; but she thought that, had Mrs. Dennison been walking over a precipice, it would need all one's courage to interfere with her. She would think it such an impertinence. And Ruston? Marjory saw, all in a minute, his cheerful scorn, his unshaken determination, his rapid dismissal of one more obstacle. She drew in her breath in a long inspiration, and Mrs. Dennison raised her eyes and smiled.
"I believe I felt you there," she said, smiling. "At least, I began to think of you."
Marjory sat near her hostess.
"Did you meet anyone?" asked Mrs. Dennison.
"Adela Ferrars and Lord Semingham."
"Well, had they anything to say?"
"No—I don't think so," she answered slowly.
"What should they have to say in this place? The children have begun. Aren't you hungry?"
"Not very."
"Well, I am," and Mrs. Dennison arose. "I forgot it, but I am."