“No, it has not!” she said, with the coldest decision, and, with that incongruity of thought which springs upon us at the most inopportune moments, I wondered if every woman for whom I cared was to change her whole nature, the moment I left her side. I remembered Lucy, and now here was Margaret, whom I had known as the embodiment of impulsive affection, fencing with a coolness that enforced my admiration. I saw she had fully prepared herself, and instantly I resolved to change my ground.
“Margaret,” I said, falling back on the most unstudied tones at my command, “it was only yesterday I learned from Gaston the true reason of your presence here. We have both suffered too cruelly from the accidents of the past to risk any misunderstanding now for the want of perfect openness between us.”
“That is what I desire above all things in the world,” she answered.
“Then let us begin at the beginning. Why was it you never let me know of your plan?”
“I do not hold that any explanation is due on my part,” she replied, still in the same tone of self-possession. “Remember I did not seek this interview, and I do not see that you have any right to question me on matters which concern only myself.”
“Great heavens; Margaret! Can anything concern you and not touch me?”
“Once I believed it could not. I am older now.”
“How can you speak thus coldly?” I cried, shocked at her incredible calm. “If there is anything I can do or say, for Heaven's sake, demand it. You cannot know what torture it is for me to see you like this. I have dreamed of you, longed for you, despaired of you through all these years, and I have a right to a different treatment. Is it on account of Lucy?”
“Partly,” she answered, somewhat moved. “Why did you never tell me of her?”
“How could I?”