“I do see, Margaret,” he began gently, “and you are right. It is at the mills themselves that the first start must be made—the first beginning of the ‘divvying up.’ Perhaps, if there were some one to show us”—he paused, then went on unsteadily: “I suppose it’s useless to say again what I said that day months ago: that if you stayed here, and showed him—the man who loves you—the better way——”
Margaret started. She gave a nervous little laugh and picked up a bit of paper from the floor.
“Of course it is useless,” she retorted in what she hoped was a merry voice. “And he doesn’t even love me now, besides.”
“He doesn’t love you!” Frank Spencer’s eyes and voice were amazed.
“Of course not! He never did, for that matter. ’Twas only the fancy of a moment. Why, Frank, Ned never cared for me—that way!”
“Ned!” The tone and the one word were enough. For one moment Margaret gazed into the man’s face with startled eyes; then she turned and covered her own telltale face with her hands—and because it was a telltale face, Spencer took a long stride toward her.
“Margaret! And did you think it was Ned I was pleading for, when all the while it was I who was hungering for you with a love that sent me across the seas to rid myself of it? Did you, Margaret?”
There was no answer.
“Margaret, look at me—let me see your eyes!” There was a note of triumphant joy in his voice now.
Still no answer.