She paused abruptly, while a purple flush went over her face. She rose to retire.
“Margaret!” exclaimed the mother.
“My daughter!” said John Cross.
“Speak out what you know—tell us all—”
“No! I will say no more. You know enough already. I tell you, I believe Alfred Stevens to be a hypocrite and a villain. Is not that enough? What is it to you whether he is so or not? What is it to me, at least? You do not suppose that it is anything to me? Why should you? What should he be? I tell you he is nothing to me—nothing—nothing—nothing! Villain or hypocrite, or what not—he is no more to me than the earth on which I tread. Let me hear no more about him, I pray you. I would not hear his name! Are there not villains enough in the world, that you should think and speak of one only?”
With these vehement words she left the room, and hurried to her chamber. She stopped suddenly before the mirror.
“And is it thus!” she exclaimed—“and I am—”
The mother by this time had followed her into the room.
“What is the meaning of this, Margaret?—tell me!” cried the old woman in the wildest agitation.
“What should it be, mother? Look at me!—in my eyes—do they not tell you? Can you not read?”