"And what about Hannah?"
"It was impossible to stay there with Hannah—and Mr. Garratt—and—all the scenes." She was confused and incoherent, but Tom made out the story in his own mind.
"And then?" he said.
"And then I slipped out in the darkness on Sunday night and came up here. I thought, perhaps, Miss Hunstan would help me."
His face beamed with happiness. "Of course, I knew there couldn't really be anything between you and Mr. Garratt; only it looked very odd, didn't it? And then Lena told me about Sunday—about his being up there, you know, and how she found you—"
"Oh, don't," Margaret cried, passionately. "It was mean of her to tell you, for she heard everything I said to him—"
"Well, never mind," he answered, in a consoling voice, "we've done with him, haven't we? But you know, Margaret," he added, falling into the familiar address without being aware of it, "you can't go on staying in rooms in London by yourself; and as for going on the stage, why it's all nonsense. I am very impertinent to say it, of course; but you see our fathers knew each other all their lives, so you must look upon me as an old friend. It's a great bore the Lakemans being in Scotland; you might have stayed with them—"
"No, I couldn't."
"Why not? Mrs. Lakeman is a good sort. Lena is a bit of a bore, of course"—a remark which, for some unknown reason, brought exultation to Margaret's heart. "As for being an actress, why you know it's all nonsense—don't look so offended." His voice would have been tender if he had not checked it. "People often come to grief in London—things are too much for them."