"Why should I deny that? To me"—with a reproachful glance at him—"she seems like one with whom many might be in love."
"Oh, you are a partisan!" says he irritably, rising abruptly, and preparing to pace the room.
Margaret catches his coat as he goes by her.
"I entreat, I implore you to be quiet. It is so slight a partition," says she. "Do sit down like a dear boy and talk softly, unless"—wistfully and evidently hopefully—"you want to go away."
"Well, I don't," says he grimly.
He reseats himself. An extraordinary fascination keeps him in this room, even in face of the fact that the mistress of it is plainly longing for his departure. She has even openly hinted at it. And the fascination? It lies there behind the folding-doors. There is no romance in it, he tells himself; it is rather the feeling of an enemy who knows his foe to be close by. He turns to Margaret.
"Why did she refuse that money?"
"Why did you refuse hers?"
"Pshaw! You're evading the question. To take half of her little pittance! I wonder you can even suggest the thing. It—it is almost an insult," says he, reddening to his brows.
"I didn't mean it," says Margaret quickly, the more so that she thinks he is going to walk the room again. "Of course you could not have taken it."