Margaret reclined languidly in her seat. The excitement of getting down-stairs had passed and she felt tired and weak.
“Tell me about yourself, Franz,” she said. “I haven't seen you in days. To-night I insisted that they should let me dress, I wished to see you so much.”
“What did the doctor tell you, Margaret?”
“That I must go South, but”—hastily—“I can not do that—I can not leave you!”
“But, if it is for the best, dear?”
“Surely it can not be best for me to be cut off from my friends, when they are so few—” She spoke in a frightened voice, as if appalled at the idea. “I should simply die of loneliness.” She glanced up at him appealingly, her lips quivering. “You would not have me go, would you, Franz? I am such a coward. What would become of me, without you?”
“I shall go with you, Margaret, if I may,” he said softly. “It all rests with you, dear. The grief of your going, if you went alone, would be quite as hard for me to bear as for you.”
For a space she was silent, then her reserve gave way entirely.
“If I go, Franz, it must be with you. I can not leave myself open to my brother's persecutions—I can not endure them! The doctor said—but he told you, too?”
“Yes.”