Lucille paused, dumfounded.
"But, Margaret, you know I thought—I really thought she was, at home, Miss Hamlin. I hope you won't be offended with me."
"I insist upon seeing her," cried Lucille. "I don't believe you are telling me the truth. I'm going right up to her room."
Margaret burst into tears.
Lucille quickly reconsidered. Indignation took the place of astonishment. She hurried down the stairs and rushed through the door without waiting for Margaret to open it.
Pauline, back in her own room, vented her first rage in tears. With her hot face pressed against the pillow, she sobbed out the agony of what she thought her betrayal—her double betrayal, by courtier and comrade at once. But the tears passed. Too vital was the spirit in her, too red flowing in her veins was the blood of fighting ancestors, too strong the fortress of self-command within the blossoming gardens of her youth and beauty for the word surrender ever to come to her mind.
True, she had found an adventure that stirred her more deeply than the peril of land or sea or sky could have done. Here was a thrill that had never been listed among her intended tremors. She sent for Owen.
Masked as ever in his suave exterior and his manner of mingled obsequiousness and fatherliness, he came instantly.
"Mr. Owen, have you known—have you known that this was going on?"
"I feel that it is my duty to know what concerns you—even what concerns your happiness, Miss Marvin," he answered.