"So he did for a time; but I think he's possessed. If he happens to take up an idea that's likely to annoy other people, he never lets it drop till he teases them half to death. He thinks I should marry money and political connection, and I don't know what all, and I'm quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar little box this is—isn't it, darling? I almost wish you were back again in that place in France."
"But I can see you so much oftener here, Cleve," pleaded Margaret, softly, with a very sad look.
"And where's the good of seeing me here, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; there's always a risk, besides, of discovery."
"Where you are is to me a paradise."
"Oh, darling, do not talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious little place! No place can be either—quite, of course—where you are. But you must see what it is—a paradise"—and he laughed peevishly—"of red brick, and lilacs, and laburnums—a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler."
There was a little tremor in Margaret's lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking in the face of a dead romance.
"Now, you really must not shed tears over that speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we can't well deny that, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own."
And so saying he kissed her, and told her to be a good little girl; and from the window Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery.
"You do look very tired, Cleve," said Margaret, looking into his anxious face.
"I am tired, darling," he said, with just a degree of impatience in his tone; "I said so—horribly tired."