'I should think you would understand why I did not tell you,' he answered rather bitterly.
She opened her parasol so impatiently that it made an ominous little noise as if it were cracking.
'I do understand,' she said, almost harshly, as she held it up against the sun.
'And yet you complain because I did not tell you,' said Lushington in a puzzled tone.
'It's you who don't understand!' Margaret retorted.
'No. I don't.'
'I'm sorry.'
They went on a little way in silence, walking rather slowly. She was angry with herself for being irritated by him, just when she admired him more than ever before, and perhaps loved him better; though love has nothing to do with admiration except to kindle it sometimes, just when it is least deserved. Now it takes generous people longer to recover from a fit of anger against themselves than against their neighbours, and in a few moments Margaret began to feel very unhappy, though all her original irritation against Lushington had subsided. She now wished, in her contrition, that he would say something disagreeable; but he did not. He merely changed the subject, speaking quite naturally.
'So it is all decided,' he said, 'and you are to make your début.'
'Yes,' she answered, with a sort of eagerness to be friendly again. 'I'm a professional from to-day, with a stage name, a prey to critics, reporters and photographers—just like your mother, except that she is a very great artist and I am a very little one.'