"Margaret, I've been rather objectionable lately," said Guy, remembering with an access of penitence that it must be almost exactly a year ago that he and Margaret in that snowy weather had first talked about his love for Pauline.
"Well, I have thought that you were forgetting me," said Margaret. "I shall be sad if we are never going to be friends again."
"Oh, Margaret, we are friends now. I've been worried, and I thought that you had been rather unkind to Pauline."
"I haven't really."
"Of course not. It was absolutely my fault," Guy admitted. "Now that there seems a chance of our being married in less than ten years, I'm going to give up this continual exasperation in which I live nowadays. It's curious that my first impression of you all should have been as of a Mozart symphony, so tranquil and gay and self-contained and perfectly made did the Rectory seem. How clumsily I have plunged into that life," he sighed. "Really, Margaret, I feel sometimes like a wild beast that's escaped from a menagerie and got into a concert of chamber-music. Look here, you shall never have to grumble at me again. Now tell me, just to show that you've forgiven my detestable irruption ... when Richard comes back...."
Margaret gave him her hand for a moment, and looked down.
"And you're happy?" he asked, eagerly.
"I'm sure I shall be."
"Oh, you will be, you will be."
Pauline asked him afterwards what he had said to Margaret that could have made her so particularly sweet, and when Guy whispered his discovery, Pauline declared that the one thing necessary to make this evening perfect had been just that knowledge.