1.
WHEN he got home he found Margot was still up. She was sewing under the lamp-glow, her coiled mass of hair a bright gold as she bent over her work, her face pale but full of patient sweetness. As Hugh stood there in his evening dress, flushed and reeking of wine, the eyes she raised to him were tired and sad.
Since the time she had met him with Mrs. Belmire there had been a change in her manner towards him. No longer did she make timid overtures of friendship, no longer tell him of the day’s doings. She had ceased to laugh and sing, and had become very quiet and reserved. She toiled continually with her needle.
It always irritated him to see her working so hard; and to-night, being in a bad humour, he said crossly: “Not in bed yet! You’ll hurt your eyes, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just going. I stayed up because I wanted to see you about something.”
“Yes, what?”
“I’ve managed to make two hundred francs by my sewing. I don’t want to be a burden on you any longer. I’m going back to Paris to work in an atelier. I’m going to-morrow morning.”
He was quite taken aback. He stared for a moment; then a steady, serious look came into his eyes. Going forward he took her hand firmly.
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes. I’ve been planning it for some time.”