It was an old wound that Mrs. Austen touched then and under it Margaret winced. "The poor dear! He was a saint and you know it."
"Know it! I should say I did. I know too that he made me hate saints. But you love them and thought you had one, instead of which you got a devil. Your luck is far better than mine. If you take my advice, you will hang on to him like grim death. It is not too late. To-morrow he will be here, thundering at the gates."
Dimly at the moment the girl's creed turned a ray on her. She lifted her head.
"He will not thunder at the gates and he is not what you say. But perhaps I am. I may have done worse than he has and what he has done is my punishment."
It was very little but it was too much. Mrs. Austen, in spite of her facile digestion, gagged at it.
"If that is theosophy, I will believe it when I am old, fat and a Hun."
Margaret sank back. "But I am sorry you have been annoyed. It won't happen again. I will write to him."
Later, she did write.
Forgive me, dear Keith, if I cause you pain, but I feel that I am not suited to you. Forgive me therefore for not recognising it sooner. I have thought it all over and, though it wrings my heart to say it, I cannot see you again. Forgive me and forget.
Margaret.