“Thanks, little ’un! You’re a brick, and I’ll always remember it.”
Elsie left her end of the table and came round to Maggie. Lucy cowered in her chair and hid her face.
Arthur’s hand fell and clenched at his side. He spoke—not to Oliver, but to Maggie.
“Is this true?”
She looked up at him with an effort. Through quivering lips she answered him. “Yes.”
“You are—actually married—to this—damned—clod?”
Oliver straightened himself sharply. “I’ll answer that question,” he said. “Come outside and I’ll show you the exact stuff he’s made of!”
But at that Maggie left her mother’s sheltering arm and got up. She stood between the two men, breathing very fast.
“You shan’t fight about me,” she said. “You’ve nothing to fight about, for I belong to Oliver and always shall, from now on. I’ve the right—as every woman has—to choose my own mate, and I’ve chosen. That’s all there is to it.”
There was a simple dignity about her as she uttered the words that carried an irresistible appeal to Frances. Shaking as she was with agitation, the girl asserted her right of womanhood with a decision that none might question.