"Not yet."
"She would not marry you! I tell you that in her heart she hates us all! Sometimes I fancy that she is here—only——"
"Mother!"
He laid his hand firmly upon her white trembling arm. She looked around, following his eyes. Margharita, pale and proud, was standing upon the threshold, with a great bunch of white hyacinths in the bosom of her black dress.
"Am I intruding?" she asked quietly. "I will come down some other evening."
Lord Lumley sprang forward to stop her; but his mother was the first to recover herself.
"Pray don't go away, Margharita," she said, with perfect self-possession. "Only a few minutes ago we were complaining that you came down so seldom. Lumley, open the piano, and get Miss Briscoe's songs."
He was by her side in a moment, but he found time for an admiring glance toward his mother. She had taken up a paper knife, and was cutting the pages of her book. It was the savoir-faire of a great lady.