"Is he here?" she asked Mr. Warde.
"Yes, waiting in my study."
"Then let him come directly," said she, "directly; because I am not in a mood for tears now; and because I could not answer for myself half an hour hence."
Mr. Warde pressed her hand, and went out in search of Mr. Haveloc.
Margaret heard his step with a sickening at the heart that she could not control: he came in—bowed, took a seat at some distance; then started up, brought his chair closer, and sat down beside her.
They were both silent, Margaret struggling with her tears. Mr. Haveloc looking on the ground, perfectly uncertain how to begin.
But after a short pause, during which she clasped more tightly the arm of her chair, Margaret forced back her tears, and said in a low tone: "We have both lost so much, and so lately, Mr. Haveloc, that we do not find it easy to allude to it."
She had never seen him look so pale, or so wretched, and she felt that she forgave him everything, though she struggled very hard against the feeling. Unconsciously her voice took a softer tone, and her countenance depicted the compassion she felt. But her companion, quite as much offended as grieved, by her rejection, had not the skill to read these signs of a softened resolution.
"I did not intrude upon you with that intention," he said. "I had something to explain to you which is a source of great distress to me, but for which I can find no remedy."
Margaret bent forward with much anxiety, Mr. Haveloc proceeded with increased coldness.