. 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