Ten minutes later when Geoff had taken his leave Margaret found Perkins still at his post, pacing the hall with dignified step. Something akin to intuition informed him it would be well not to allude to recent happenings, so he remarked:
“I think dinner is waiting for us. Suppose we go see.”
It was after dinner when Margaret was alone with Perkins and his mother that she crept close to the latter saying: “I think I shall have to go away.”
Mrs. Perkins let fall her sewing and gazed at Margaret in blank astonishment.
“My dear, you surely don't mean it!” she cried at last.
Whatever traits Mrs. Perkins had inherited from her military ancestors, to Margaret she had been womanly and loving, and the friendless little wanderer had received from her more motherly care than she had ever before known.
“I think,” she began again timidly, and her voice was perilously near to the point of breaking, “I think it is much better for me to go at once.”
“But do you wish to go—that is—must you?” Mrs. Perkins insisted: “Dear! dear! I had never even thought of your leaving us, and yet it is scarcely probable you will be content to remain here always.”
“I fear it is better for me to leave you, but I do not wish to go—it's not that—believe me it's not!”
“Then, my dear, Ballard and I will never hear to it.”