The postman, the parcels delivery, a van from the Stores, had all claimed the tribute of a blush, a gasp, and a fresh rush to the glass, before at last slow footsteps were heard mounting the stairs, and Mary’s voice at the door announced, “A gentleman to see you, Miss Margot!” and in another minute, as it seemed, she was facing George Elgood across the length of the drawing-room.
The rôles of invalid and anxious inquirer seemed for the moment to be reversed, for while she was pink and smiling, he was grave and of a ghastly pallor. Nervous also; for the first words of greeting were an unintelligible murmur, and they seated themselves in an embarrassed silence.
“You—er—you received my letter?”
“Yes!” Margot gazed at the tips of her dainty slippers, and smiled softly to herself. In the interval which had passed since they last met, the Editor had evidently suffered a relapse into his old shyness and reserve. She had guessed as much from the somewhat stilted phraseology of his letter, and was prepared to reassure him by her own outspoken gratitude.
“Yes; I was so pleased!”
He gave a little start of astonishment, and stared at her with bright, incredulous eyes.
“Pleased? You mean it? You did not think it a liberty—”
“Indeed I did not. I guessed what you had to tell me, and it made me so happy.”
He leaned forward impetuously, the blood flushing his cheeks.
“You had guessed before? You knew it was coming?”