“Those creatures have none of the finer feelings,” thought her ladyship. “Yet we are all brothers and sisters according to the Bible. I don’t agree with that at all. Curtis, come back; there is another worm.”
Marjorie stood at the window, watching her aunt’s operations, yet seeing none of them. Her face was set and white and resolute, the soft round chin seemed to be jutting out more obstinately than usual.
For Marjorie had made up her mind definitely, and she knew that she was about to hurt herself and to hurt someone else.
But it must be. It was only fair, it was only just. Silence, she believed, would be wicked.
The door behind her opened, and Tom Arundel came into the room. He was fresh from the stable, and smelled of straw.
“Why, darling, is there anything up? I got your note asking me to come here at once. Joe gave it to me just as we were going to take out the brute Lady Linden has bought. Of all the vicious beasts! I wish to goodness she wouldn’t buy a horse without a proper opinion, but it is useless talking to her. She said she liked the white star on its forehead—white star! black devil, I call it! But I’ll break him in if I break my neck—doing it. But—I am sorry. You want me?”
“I want to speak to you.”
“Then you might turn and look at a chap, Marjorie.”
“I—I prefer to—to look out through the window,” she said in a stifled voice.
Standing in the room he beheld her, slim and graceful, dark against the light patch of the window, her back obstinately turned to him; looking at her, there came a great and deep tenderness into his face, the light of a very honest and intense love.