‘I liked her best in the earlier portions of the play,’ returned Margaret quietly. ‘I have a prejudice against seeing women dressed up in male attire. I suppose she is a modest woman, but—by the way, James, she seemed to recognise you? Do you know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘You cannot have met her in society?’
‘I was introduced to her by her guardian, White, the dramatic author. We have been acquainted for some time.’
‘Indeed!’ said Margaret, more coldly than ever.
She drew back her chair, and rose to go. ‘I am very tired. I think I will say good-night.’ ‘Don’t go yet,’ exclaimed Forster. ‘I—I want to talk to you.’
‘Yes?’
‘About Miss Vere.’ Then he continued, nervously and hurriedly, ‘I have not only a great respect for her, Margaret, but a stronger feeling. I should have spoken to you concerning her before, but I had certain reasons for keeping silence. Now I think you ought to know everything. I have asked her to marry me.’
Margaret Forster gazed at her brother in horror. Her face went ghastly pale, and she felt as if a sharp knife had stabbed her to the heart.
‘You cannot be serious!’ she cried.