“I feared that. I dared to hint as much to the Squire.”
“The wretch never told me.”
“I wanted to rest, to gloat in this quiet paradise. To fortify myself.”
“For what?”
The quiet question brought a faint flush to Margot’s pale cheeks, but she replied vivaciously:
“Against my autumn visits, a dreary round, which no longer sufficies me. The people I know are too aggressive, too neurotic, too jumpy. I have chosen my friends—if you can call them that—not very wisely. My own fault. This last season was trying. One must keep up with the procession, and it simply races along.”
Lady Pomfret felt sorry for her, pity welled into her kind eyes and suffused her voice. Margot looked so small, so frail. Take from her the trappings of her position, and what was left? A motherless young woman, who, admittedly, had chosen the wrong friends. She murmured softly—
“Poor little Margot! You make me sad. But I am glad that you think of this,” her glance wandered round the peaceful garden, “as a sanctuary.”
“I do. I do. Why didn’t we meet before?”