The boy's anger flamed to a white heat as he glanced out through the stateroom door to where the Rev. Theophilus and wife sat stolidly luxuriating in the artificial draught.
"When I was a child we lived for a while in Shanghai. My father's ship was there," she added.
"Your father in the navy?" cried the boy hoarsely. "What was his name?"
"Wellington," she answered. "He was a commander. He died at Hong Kong ten years ago."
"Wellington! Richard Wellington? He was in my father's class at Annapolis!" cried the boy. Then he groaned and bit his lips. "Oh!—oh! it's a crime!"
He dropped on one knee and took her hands.
"Poor little girl!" he almost sobbed, "poor little girl! Think of it! Ten years! Poor child!"
Margaret laid one hand on his head.
"I am quite happy," she said calmly.
"Happy!" He gave a half-hysterical laugh and shook his fist at the door. Then he leaned over and whispered eagerly: