Mrs. Wingfield, unhappily, stood in her path. She had been watching her approach with an expression which needed no explanation, but she could not be content with silent disapproval, she rushed upon her fate. “Why, how do you do, Mrs. White,” she said, in her audible voice, “I really didn’t know it was you; I thought it must be some actress!”
Margaret looked at her blankly, then she put her head on one side. “‘Well, God ’ild you!’” she exclaimed, “‘they say the owl was a baker’s daughter.’”
Mrs. Wingfield turned painfully scarlet. There was a titter, an audible and wavering titter around her. Alack, there were only too many who remembered, with the memory of society, that her father had dealt in loaves and fishes!
But Margaret had passed on; she handed a flower to Fox as she passed, rosemary for remembrance; she gave a rose to Rose Temple and to the judge a sprig of rue with a little malicious smile.
“Call it herb of grace o’ Sundays!” she said lightly, and the judge laughed good humoredly with the others, for he knew that his stiff, old-fashioned manners and customs were often meat for jests.
After all, it was not so bad, people were obviously entertained; White began to draw a breath of relief, he tried to signal to her to stop. But Margaret was not done, instead, the very spirit of defiance seemed to possess her. She suddenly knelt in the centre of the room and began to make a wreath of flowers, singing Ophelia’s lament, her sweet, high voice carrying far in the great rooms. The throng of gayly dressed women drew farther away, the circle widened, necks were craned, those behind stood on tip-toe.
It was too much for Wicklow White, he could endure no more; he walked abruptly across the space. “Margaret,” he said, in a low peremptory voice, “this is too much, we must go home!”
She looked up and shook back her soft, wild hair as she tossed a flower at him.
“‘For bonny, sweet Robin is all my joy!’” she sang maliciously.
He crimsoned and bit his lip. Again some one applauded; there was a slight murmur of talk.