John had known, at least, that her heart was full. It was as if she had seen a friendly face in the midst of a vast unnoticing crowd. When she said good-night to him she gave him her hand with new confidence. Then, out of his sight, she was suddenly angry with herself as for a foolishness, a weakness for the first time realized. An instant she stood unmoving outside her bedroom door—her mind tripped somehow, taken unawares.
And in the morning she settled at once to a book, glad of an occupation so isolating.
“You’re very deep in that book, Margaret,” Hugh said, as he passed her. “Aren’t you coming out?”
“I want to finish it before lunch. Do you mind?”
“I see the last of you and mother to-morrow.”
“I’ll come this afternoon, ... or shall I come now?”
He looked into her upturned face. Her hand was on the arm of her chair to raise herself.
“No, you odd sister.... No; you’re not to come—of course not.”
She went late to lunch, and was surprised to find Hartington at her mother’s table, with John and Hugh. He said that his leave lasted only till that evening.