, such as a man might have written
a hundred years ago--not such as men write nowadays, thought Margaret;
certainly not such as Mr. Barker would write--or could. But she was glad
he had written; and written so, for it was like him, who was utterly
unlike any one else. The letter had come in the morning while Clementine
was dressing her, and she laid it on her writing-desk. But when the
maid was gone, she read it once again, sitting by her window, and when
she had done she unconsciously held it in her hand and rested her cheek
against it. A man kisses a letter received from the woman he loves, but
a woman rarely does. She thinks when he is away that she would hardly
kiss _him_, were he present, much less will she so honour his
handwriting. But when he himself comes the colour of things is changed.
Nevertheless, Margaret put the folded letter in her bosom and wore it
there unseen all through that day; and when Mr. Barker came to offer to
take her to drive she said she would not go, making some libellous
remark about the weather, which was exceeding glad and sunshiny in spite
of her refusal to face it. And Mr. Barker, seeing that he was less
welcome than usual, went away, for he was mortally afraid of annoying
her.

Margaret was debating within herself whether she should answer, and if
so, what she should say. In truth, it was not easy. She felt herself
unable to write in the way he did, had she wished to. Besides, there was
that feminine feeling still lurking in her heart, which said, "Do not
trust him till he comes back." It seemed to her it must be so easy to
write like that--and yet, she had not thought so at the first reading.
But she loved him, not yet as she would some day, but still she loved,
and it was her first love, as it was his.

She had settled herself in the hotel for the present, and to make it
more like home--like her pretty home at Baden--she had ordered a few
plants and growing flowers, very simple and inexpensive, for she felt
herself terribly pinched, although she had not yet begun actually to
feel the restrictions laid on her by her financial troubles. When
Barker was gone, she amused herself with picking off the dried leaves
and brushing away the little cobwebs and spiders that always accumulate
about growing things. In the midst of this occupation she made up her
mind, and rang the bell.

"Vladimir, I am not at home," she said solemnly, and the gray-haired,
gray-whiskered functionary bowed in ac