It was, all of a sudden, so easy to be amiable and unselfish! The nervous irritation which had made it difficult to be patient, even with dear, tactful Edie during the last weeks, had taken wing and departed with the first sight of that square white envelope. The light came back to Margot’s eyes; she held her head erect, the very hollows in her cheeks seemed miraculously to disappear, and to be replaced by the old dimpling smile. Mr Vane and Ron exchanged glances of delight at the marvellous manner in which their invalid had stood the journey home.
The letters and parcel lay unnoticed on the table until the conclusion of the meal, but as Margot picked them up preparatory to carrying them upstairs to her own room, she gave a sudden start of astonishment.
“Ron, it’s the Loadstar! Some one has sent me a copy of the Loadstar. From the office, I think, for the name is printed on the cover. Who could it be?”
“The Editor, of course—as a mark of attention on your return home. Lazy beggar! It was easier than writing a letter,” laughed Ron easily, stretching out his hand as he spoke to take forcible possession, for the magazine was of more interest to himself than to Margot, and he felt that a new copy was just what was needed to occupy the hours before bedtime.
Margot made no demur, but stood watching quietly while Ron tore off the wrapper, and flattened the curled paper. She was not in a reading mood, but the suggestion that George Elgood might have sent the magazine made it precious in her sight, and she waited anxiously for its return.
“It’s mine, Ron. It was sent to me! I want to take it upstairs.”
“Let me look at the index first, to see who is writing this month! You don’t generally care for such stiff reading; I say, there’s a fine collection of names! It’s stronger than ever this month. I don’t believe there is another paper in the world which has such splendid fellows for contribu—”
Ron stopped short, his voice failing suddenly in the middle of the word. His jaw dropped, and a wave of colour surged in his cheeks.
“It—it can’t be!” he gasped incredulously. “It can’t! There must be another man of the same name. It can’t possibly be meant for me!...”
“What? What? Let me see? What are you talking about?” cried Margot, peering eagerly over his shoulder, while Ron pointed with a trembling finger to the end of the table of contents. Somehow the words seemed to be printed in a larger type than the rest. They grew larger and larger until they seemed to fill the whole page—“Solitude. A Fragment. By Ronald Vane!”