Ralph had walked up to the house one bleak afternoon in early spring along the river-bank from Westminster, and had found Margaret alone in the dining-hall, seated by the window with her embroidery in her hand, and a Terence propped open on the sill to catch the last gleams of light from the darkening afternoon. She greeted Ralph warmly, for he was a very familiar figure to them all by now, and soon began to talk, when he had taken a seat by the wide open fireplace whence the flames flickered out, casting shadows and lights round the high room, across the high-hung tapestries and in the gloomy corners.
“Beatrice is here,” she said presently, “upstairs with father. I think she is doing some copying for him.”
“She is a great deal with him,” observed Ralph.
“Why, yes; father thinks so much of her. He says that none can write so well as she, or has such a quick brain. And then she does not talk, he says, nor ask foolish woman-questions like the rest of us.” And Margaret glanced up a moment, smiling.
“I suppose I must not go up,” said Ralph, a little peevishly; for he was tired with his long day.
“Why, no, you must not,” said Margaret, “but she will be down soon, Mr. Torridon.”
There was silence for a moment or two; and then Margaret spoke again.
“Mr. Torridon,” she said, “may I say something?” Ralph made a little sound of assent. The warmth of the fire was making him sleepy.
“Well, it is this,” said Margaret slowly, “I think you believe that Beatrice does not like you. That is not true. She is very fond of you; she thinks a great deal of you,” she added, rather hastily.
Ralph sat up; his drowsiness was gone.