“She’s come over Meg, too!” said Gervase to himself with a chuckle; and, fortunately, his amusement in that, and the impulse of his cousin’s touch on his arm, and the new suggestion which, whatever it happened to be, was always powerful with him, made him obey the call which now came out shrilly over the other noises from the library door.
“Gervase! Gervase! I’m waiting for you for tea.”
Margaret crossed the hall into the morning-room, with a grave face. The consternation which was in her whole aspect moved Colonel Piercey, who followed her, to a short laugh. “What is to be done?” he said.
“Oh, nothing, nothing that I know of! Of course she is Gervase’s wife—she has a right to be here. I don’t know what my poor uncle will say—but I told you before he would be talked over.”
“She showed herself very ready and with all her wits about her, at the door.”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “She has a great deal of sense, I have always heard. It may not be a bad thing after all.”
“It frightens you, however,” Colonel Piercey said.
“Not frightens but startles me—very much: and then, poor Aunt Piercey! Poor Aunt Piercey! her only child, and on her funeral day.”
“She was not a wise mother, I should imagine.”
“What does that matter?” cried Margaret. “And who is wise? We do what we think is the best, and it turns out the worst. How can we tell? I am glad she is gone, at least, and did not see it,” she cried with a few hot tears.