"What do you want me to do?" Margaret was in despair.
"Will you go to Paris for a time as my guest. You might start to-night. A former maid of mine could go with you. It would do you a world of good. It would be better to go away for a time, dear."
"I won't," Margaret answered, quite simply and doggedly. "If Tom loves Lena better than he does me let him go to her, but I shall stay here."
Then Mrs. Lakeman had an inspiration, and, as usual, she was practical.
"Go out to your father," she said, "in Australia. A cousin of mine is a director of one of the largest lines of steamers; I'll make him put a state-room at your disposal. You'll come back in a vastly different position from your present one. Cyril can't live many months—I shouldn't be surprised if he's dead already—and you, of course, will be the daughter of Lord Eastleigh." She stopped, for Mrs. Gilman entered again with a cablegram. Perhaps the gods were listening and thought the moment an apt one for its arrival.
"It is from my father," Margaret said, with a quivering lip. "We cabled to him yesterday." She opened it, and the violent effort to keep back her tears brought the color to her face. It contained the one word—delighted.
"What does he say?" Mrs. Lakeman asked.
"It doesn't matter; it makes no difference," Margaret answered, crushing it in her hand; and then she said, gently and sweetly, so that it was impossible to take offence: "I will give up Tom, Mrs. Lakeman, but you must go away now, for I feel as if I can't bear any one's presence. And I can't go away; you must manage as you please, but I shall stay here."
"But there's something else I want you to do," Mrs. Lakeman said. "I want you to keep this visit of mine a secret from Tom—for Lena's sake."
"Doesn't he know that you have come?"