'Are you playing with me?' he asked, in an angry tone.

'No,' she answered with exasperating coolness, 'I don't think I am.

Only, you are two people, you see. It confuses me. You are Mr.

Lushington, and then, the next minute, you're--Tom. I hate Mr.

Lushington. I believe I always did. I wish I might never see him

again.' 'Oh indeed! How about Tom?' 'Tom is rather bearable than otherwise,' Margaret answered, laughing

again. 'He knows that I think so, too, and it's no reason why he should

be always trying to keep out of the way!' 'He has no right to be in the way.' 'Then he ought never to have come here. But since he has, I would

rather have him stay.' When she had thus explained herself with perfect frankness and made

known her wishes, Margaret seemed to think that there was nothing more

to be said. But Lushington thought otherwise.

'Why do you hate Mr. Lushington?' he asked.

'Because he is a fraud,' Margaret answered. 'As you have just told me

that he is, you cannot possibly deny it, and you can't quarrel with me

for not liking him. So there!' All her good-humour had come back, the cold sparkle in her eyes had

turned into afternoon sunshine, and she swung her closed parasol gently

on one finger by its hook as she walked, nodding her head just

perceptibly as if keeping time with it. She expected an answer, a laugh

perhaps, or a retort; but nothing came. She glanced sideways at

Lushington, thinking to meet his eyes, but they were watching the

ground as he walked, a yard before his feet. She turned her head and

looked at his face, and she realised that it was a little drawn, and

had grown suddenly pale, and that there were dark shadows under his

eyes which she had never seen before. The healthy, shy, rather too

youthful mask was gone, and in its place she saw the features of a

mature man who was quietly suffering a great deal. She fancied that he

must often look as he did now, when he was alone.

'Could any one do anything to make it easier for you?' she asked

softly, after a moment.

He looked up quickly in surprise, and then shook his head, without

speaking.

'Because, if I could help you, I would,' she added.

'Thank you. I know you would,' He spoke with real gratitude, and the

colour began to come back to his face. You see, it's not a thing that

can be changed, or helped, or bettered. It's a condition from which I

cannot escape, and I've got to live in it. It would have been easier if

I had never met you, my dear Miss Donne!' He straightened himself and put on something of the formality that had

become a habit with him, as it easily does with shy men who feel much.




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