During the process she grew pale. Mixed up with her arguments was that foolish idea that she ought to have heard something from the Candy Man. Had he seen that item in the Evening Record?
Mrs. Pennington noticed the pallor, but treated it lightly. Margaret Elizabeth was tired out, but now Lent was here she would rest. She was worn to death herself, but she would recuperate, and surely her niece, who was years younger, could do the same. She failed to take into consideration the complications lacking in her own case. In fact, having brought matters to the present status, Mrs. Pennington allowed herself to relax.
Mr. Gerrard Pennington looked at Margaret Elizabeth from beneath his bushy brows. Confound them, what were they doing to her? She had a way of joining him in the library, and sitting with a book in her lap, which she seldom read.
One day, laying down his paper, and after a cautious glance over his shoulder, he remarked: "Did it ever occur to you, Margaret Elizabeth, that you don't have to marry anybody?"
She stared at him with surprised eyes, in which a smile slowly dawned. "Why, Uncle Gerry, what do you mean? Of course I don't have to."
"There is a great deal in suggestion," continued Mr. Pennington. "Keep telling people a certain thing, confront them with it on all occasions, and they will be influenced in spite of themselves; and it has occurred to me——"
"Yes?" said Margaret Elizabeth.
"Well, that it applies in your case." Mr. Pennington cleared his throat. "A certain person whom we know has behaved very well of late; better than I thought was in him, but—unless you are pretty sure you can't live without him—Now this is rank treason on my part, but don't be too soft-hearted, Margaret Elizabeth."
Mr. Pennington returned to his stock-market reports, and silence reigned, but presently two hands rested on his shoulders, and a velvet cheek touched his for a moment. "Thank you, Uncle Gerry," said Margaret Elizabeth.