Just then Margaret raised her eyes from her book and saw his face, and

he did not know that she was looking at him. For the first time since

she had met him she understood a little of his real nature, and guessed

the reason why he could write so well. He was a man of heart. She knew

it now, in spite of his faults, his shyness, his ridiculous

over-sensitiveness, his detestable way of blurting out cutting

speeches, his icy criticism of things he did not like. It was a

revelation. She wondered what he would say if he spoke just then.

But at that moment Mrs. Rushmore appeared on the lawn, an imposing and

rather formal figure in black and violet, against the curtain of

honeysuckle that hung down over the verandah.




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