the
man, and she did not mean to forgive him. Besides, in a yacht, with a
party of six people, where there was absolutely no escape possible, it
was unpardonable. He really ought not to have done it. Did he think--did
he flatter himself--that if she had expected he was going to act just
like all the rest of them she would have treated him as she had? Did he
fancy his well-planned declaration would flatter _her_? Could he not see
that she wanted to consider him always as a friend, that she thought she
had found at last what she had so often dreamed of--a friendship proof
against passion? It was so common, so commonplace. It was worse, for it
was taking a cruel advantage of the narrow limits within which they were
both confined. Besides, he had taken advantage of her kindness to plan a
scene which he knew would surprise her out of herself. She ought to have
spoken strongly and sharply and made him suffer for his sin while he was
yet red-handed. And instead, what had she done? She had merely said very
meekly that "it was not right," and had sought safety in a hasty
retreat.

She sighed wearily, and began to shake out the masses of her black hair,
that was as the thickness of night spun fine. And as she drew out the
thick tortoise-shell pins that bore it up, it rolled down heavily in a
soft dark flood and covered her as with a garment. Then she leaned back
and sighed again, and her eyes fell on a book that lay at the corner of
her dressing-table, where she had left it before dinner. It was the book
they had been reading, and the mark was a bit of fine white cord that
Claudius had cunningly twisted and braided, sailor fashion, to keep the
place. Margaret rose to her feet, and taking the book in her hand,
looked at it a moment without opening it. Then she hid it out of sight
and sat down again. The action had been almost unconscious, but now she
thought about it, and she did not like what she had done. Angry with him
and with herself, she was yet calm enough to ask why she could not bear
the sight of the volume on the table. Was it possible she had cared
enough about her friendship for the Doctor to be seriously distressed at
its sudden termination? She hardly knew--perhaps so. So many men had
made love to her, none had ever before seemed to be a friend.

The weary and hard-worked little sentiment that we call conscience spoke
up. Was she just to him? No. If she had cared even as much as that
action showed, had he no right