"My dear, it isn't right and proper that you and Lord Blair should be on speaking terms," she said at last. "He's the earl's nephew, and—and you are only my granddaughter, you know."
"Which I am quite content to be," said Margaret, busily engaged with her paint box. "But I don't see that I have done anything very wicked, grandma. I couldn't very well refuse to answer him when he spoke."
"No, no, certainly not," said the old lady; "but if he speaks again—but there, it isn't likely you'll see him again. He is only going to stop the night, and you're not likely to meet him again, that's one comfort."
"It is indeed," said Margaret, with a laugh. "Especially as he is the gentleman whom I saw fighting in the village, and whom I called a savage."
"You—you called him a savage!" gasped Mrs. Hale. "My dear Margaret, is it possible?"
"It is only too possible and certain," said Margaret lightly, "and his lordship remembered it, too. However, as he asked me to forgive him, I suppose he has forgiven me; and if he has not I don't care. He was like a savage, and I spoke the truth." Then after a pause, during which the old lady stared in a rapt kind of fashion—"Grandma, what a pity it is that so wicked a man should be so good-looking."
"Yes, he is handsome enough," sighed the old lady, shaking her head.
"Oh, handsome, yes! I didn't mean that exactly. I meant really good looking. He looks so frank and—yes!—gentle, and his eyes seem to shine with kindness and—and—boyishness. Nobody would believe that he was a bad young man."
"They'd soon learn the truth when they knew him," said the old lady, rather shrewdly.
"I dare say. What a good thing it would be if all the good men were handsome, and all the bad ugly. You would tell at a glance, then, how the case lay. As it is, the man who looks like a villain may be as good as a saint, while the other who looks like a hero and an angel, is probably as bad as—as——"