“Believe me, I—I much prefer not to: it is a sore subject, a matter I never speak about!”
“Oh, go away then—and leave me to myself. Let me think it all out!”
He went gladly enough; he made his way back to the lily-pond.
“Marjorie,” he said tragically, “what have you done?”
“Oh, Hugh!” She was trembling at once.
“No, no, dear, don’t worry; it is nothing. She believes every word, and I feel sure it will be all right for you and Tom, but, oh Marjorie—that name, I thought you had invented it!”
Marjorie flushed. “It was the name of a girl at Miss Skinner’s: she was a great, great friend of mine. She was two years older than I, and just as sweet and beautiful as her name, and when you were casting about for one I—I just thought of it, Hugh. It hasn’t done any harm, has it?”
“I hope not, only, don’t you see, you’ve made me claim an existing young lady as my wife, and if she turned up some time or other—”
“But she won’t! When she left school she went out to Australia to join her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to England.”
Hugh drew a sigh of relief. “That’s all right then! It’s all right, little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter for you now.”