'He used to be always so well dressed!' said Mrs. Rushmore to Margaret

in an audible whisper.

Lushington winced visibly, but as he was not supposed to hear the words

he said nothing. William had worked down to the knees of his trousers,

which he grasped firmly in one hand while he vigorously brushed the

cloth with the other.

'That will do, thank you,' said Lushington, trying to draw back one

captive leg.

But William was inexorable and there was no escape from his hold. He

was an Englishman, and was therefore thorough; he was a servant, and he

therefore thoroughly enjoyed the humour of seeing his betters in a

pickle.

'And now, my dear,' said Mrs. Rushmore to Margaret, 'get in and I'll

take you home. You can explain everything on the way. That's enough,

William. Put away your brush.' Margaret had no choice, since fate had intervened.

'I'm very much obliged to you,' she said, nodding to Logotheti; 'and I

hope you'll be none the worse,' she added, smiling at Lushington.

Mrs. Rushmore bent her head with dignified disapproval, first to one

and then to the other, and got into the carriage as if she were

mounting the steps of a throne. She further manifested her displeasure

at the whole affair by looking straight before her at the buttons on

the back of the coachman's coat after she had taken her seat. Margaret

got in lightly after her and she scarcely glanced at Logotheti as the

carriage turned; but her eyes lingered a little with an expression that

was almost sad as she met Lushington's. She was conscious of a reaction

of feeling; she was sorry that she had helped to make him suffer, that

she had been amused by his damaged condition and by his general

discomfiture. He had made her respect him in spite of herself, just

when she had thought that she could never respect him again; and

suddenly the deep sympathy for him welled up, which she had taken for

love, and which was as near to love as anything her heart had yet felt

for a man.

She knew, too, that it was really her heart, and nothing else, where he

was concerned. She was human, she was young, she was more alive than

ordinary women, as great singers generally are, and Logotheti's

ruthless masculine vitality stirred her and drew her to him in a way

she did not quite like. His presence disturbed her oddly and she was a

little ashamed of liking the sensation, for she knew quite well that

such feelings had nothing to do with what she called her real self. She

might have hated him and even despised him, but she could never have

been indifferent when he was close to her. Sometimes the mere touch of

his hand at meeting or parting thrilled her and made her feel as if she

were going to blush. But she was never really in sympathy with him as

she was with Lushington.




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