"How—how you must hate and despise me, by Jove!" he said.
Margaret flushed.
"You have no right to say that, my lord, because I see that I acted unwisely last night. How can I hate or despise one who is a stranger to me?"
"Yes, that's it; I'm a stranger, and you mean to keep me one!" he said, half bitterly, half sorrowfully. "Well, I can't complain; I'm not fit for you to know. Why, even my own flesh and blood are anxious to see the back of me! Yes, you are right, Miss Margaret."
He dwelt on the name sadly, using it unconsciously.
"Oh, no, no!" she said, wrung to the heart at the thought of wounding him so mercilessly. "It's not that! It's not of you I thought, but of myself."
"Of yourself yes," he said. "Communication with me is a kind of pollution; you cannot touch tar, you know! Oh, I understand! Well"—he hung his head—"I'll do as you tell me; I can't do less. I'll take my poor rose——" He stopped short, and something seemed to strike him. "But if I do, I must return you this," and he gently unfastened the white one from his coat, and held it out to her.
Margaret put out her hand irresolutely.
"Oh, take it!" he said recklessly. "It is one out of the bowl you gave me."
"I gave you?" she said.