Ford gave her a whimsical look of question.
"Sure you haven't at some time done more than she asked you?" he inquired.
"Why?" Margaret was surprised. She laughed unwillingly. "Is it shrewdness or have you heard something?"
"I haven't heard a word," he assured her. "But is that it?"
"It 's just your natural cleverness, then? Wonderful," said Margaret. "You ought to go on the stage, really. Yes, that 's what it is—I suppose. And now d'you think she 'll see the reasonable view of it? Not she! I 'm a villain in skirts and if I won't stand it, she 'll ask the doctor to recommend a Sanatorium where I can be more comfortable. And just at this moment, I don't think I can stand much more of it."
"Eh?" Ford scowled disapprovingly. "That 's a rotten thing to say. You don't feel inclined to tell me about it?"
"I can't; I mustn't. That 's the worst of it," answered Margaret. "I can't tell you anything."
"At any rate," said Ford, "don't take it into your head to go away. This won't do you any harm in the end. You weren't thinking of it seriously, were you?"
"Wasn't I? I was, though. I hate all this."
Ford took a couple of steps toward the door and a couple back.