n's, had not been asked
instead. But the invitation touched her by its intimate tone. She
must know Evie Wilcox better than she supposed, and declaring that she
"simply must," she accepted.

But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant, staring
fiercely at nothing after the fashion of athletic women, her heart
failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her
engagement. Her voice was gruffer, her manner more downright, and she
was inclined to patronise the more foolish virgin. Margaret was silly
enough to be pained at this. Depressed at her isolation, she saw not
only houses and furniture, but the vessel of life itself slipping past
her, with people like Evie and Mr. Cahill on board.

There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came
to her at Simpson's in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow,
but carpeted thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of
mutton were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong,
if erroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished she had never
come out of her backwater, where nothing happened except art and
literature, and where no one ever got married or succeeded in
remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise. "Father might be of the
party--yes, father was." With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to
greet him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished.

"I thought I'd get round if I could," said he. "Evie told me of her
little plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure
a table first. Evie, don't pretend you want to sit by your old father,
because you don't. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My
goodness, but you look tired! Been worrying round after your young
clerks?"

"No, after houses," said Margaret, edging past him into the box. "I'm
hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps."

"That's good. What'll you have?"

"Fish pie," said she, with a glance at the menu.

"Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson's. It's not a bit the
thing to go for here."

"Go for something for me, then," said Margaret, pulling off her gloves.
Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed
her curiously.

"Saddle of mutton," said he after profound reflection; "and cider to
drink. That's the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in
a way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don't you agree?"

"Yes," said Margaret, who didn't. The order was given,