"You want to speak to me, don't you?" she asked.
Mr. Samson did not understand. "Do I?" he said. "Did I say so? I wonder what it was."
"You didn't say so," Margaret answered, "But I know you do. You wouldn't send me finally to Coventry without saying anything at all, would you?"
"Ah!" He made a weary gesture with one hand, as though he would put the subject from him. "But—but I 'm not sending you to Coventry, my—Miss Harding, I mean. Don't think it, for a moment."
He shook his white head with a touch of sadness, looking up at her slender, civilized figure as she stood before him with a gaze that granted in advance every claim she could make on his consideration and forbearance.
"You know what I mean," said Margaret steadily.
"Do I though? Well, yes, I suppose I do," he said. "No use fumbling with it, is there? And you're not the fumbling kind. Each of us knows what the other means all right, so what's the use of talking about it?"
Margaret would not let him off; she did not desire that he should spare her and could see no reason for sparing him.
"I want to talk about it, this once," she answered. "You won't have many more chances to tell me what you think of me. I know, of course; but I was n't going to shirk it. I 've disappointed you, have n't I?"
"I don't say so," he replied, with careful gentleness. "I don't say anything of the kind, Miss Harding. You took your own line as you 'd every right to do. If I had—sort of—imagined you were different, you 're not to blame for my mistake. God knows I don't set up for an example to young ladies. Not my line at all, that sort of thing."