“No—she wrote. She had married Gregory Macmillan secretly when he was here. They sent her word that he had typhoid out West and she went to him. Why she didn’t tell people is still a mystery.”
“Married him—Gregory? But she’d only known him four days.”
Helen nodded. “That’s just it. Isn’t it—” she stopped, fearing to wound.
“Magnificent—brave—foolish—” finished Margaret. Her voice broke unaccustomedly. “It’s wonderful. Gregory will be a strange husband but if she shares him with Ireland and—oh, it’s rather perfect. And so all that nonsense about Gage being involved—”
“Was nonsense.”
Margaret did not ask further about Gage. She reverted to Freda and Gregory. The news left her marveling, an envy that was wonder in her remarks. She made no comparisons between Freda and herself and yet it was clear that Freda wrought herself to another phase—a step on towards some solution of thought.
Helen urged her to come to dinner.
“I’d rather not, I think. I’ll have a rest perhaps.”
“Then you’ll go out with us for a ride to-night?”
“Gage wouldn’t like it, would he?”