"I ordered him out of the house," stammered her mother.
"I wish you'd stick to your novels and let me attend to my own affairs," cried Margaret, pale with fury. "Is he gone?"
"I left Williams attending to it. Surely, Rita—"
But Margaret had flung the door open and was darting down the stairs. "Where is he?" she demanded fiercely of Williams, still in the drawing-room doorway.
"In the garden, ma'am," said Williams. "He didn't pay no attention."
But Margaret was rushing through the drawing-room. At the French windows she caught sight of him, walking up and down in his usual quick, alert manner, now smelling flowers, now staring up into the trees, now scrutinizing the upper windows of the house. She drew back, waited until she had got her breath and had composed her features. Then, with the long skirts of her graceful pale-blue dress trailing behind her, and a big white sunshade open and resting upon her shoulder, she went down the veranda steps and across the lawn toward him. He paused, gazed at her in frank—vulgarly frank—admiration; just then, it seemed to her, he never said or did or looked anything except in the vulgarest way.
"You certainly are a costly-looking luxury," said he loudly, when there were still a dozen yards between them. "Oh, there's your mother at the window, upstairs—her bedroom window."
"How did you know it was her bedroom?" asked Margaret.
"While I was waiting for you to come down one day I sent for one of the servants and had him explain the lay of the house."
"Really!" said Margaret, satirical and amused. "I suppose there was no mail on the table or you'd have read that while you waited?"