XXX
It was past seven when Margaret came in from posting her letter; she had walked on almost unconsciously for an hour or two—into the city, deserted after the business of the day, and back by the Embankment, to avoid the traffic near the theatres.
The last few hours had been so full of events they had changed the whole current of her life; but as yet she was hardly able to take in all the meanings attached to them. She was like a woman in a dream struggling to awake; it seemed as if everything that had happened concerned some one else rather than herself. Oh, if she could feel more acutely—she even longed for pain, for anything that would make her realize that she was still alive.
Mrs. Gilman let her in, evidently full of pleasant excitement. "Miss Hunstan is coming back," she exclaimed. "I have just had a letter, and knew you would like to be told. She expects to be here in a day or two. She will be pleased about you and Mr. Carringford."
Margaret stopped, dumfounded; but Mrs. Gilman would have to know. She thought it would be better to get it over. "But perhaps we are not going to be married, after all—Mr. Carringford and I," she said, lamely. "We made up our minds too quickly."
"Oh no, miss, I couldn't think that; and, if I know anything about it, he loves the ground you walk on. There was a glow in his face whenever I let him in, or whenever he was with you, that did one good to see."
But Margaret was on her way up-stairs and answered nothing.
Mrs. Gilman called after her: "Oh, Miss Vincent, I forgot to say there's a letter for you—you'll find it on the drawing-room table."