to be angry with her for lunching with Logotheti, she was quite
sure. He had parted from her, giving her to understand that they were
to meet as little as possible in future. How could he possibly claim to
criticise her actions after that? A few days ago, she would have
married him, if he had not insisted that it was impossible. She was not
sure that she would marry him now, if he came back. He had looked as if
he meant to interfere in her life, after refusing to share it. No woman
will tolerate that.

Yet she was disturbed, and a little sad, now that the day was over.
Logotheti had found words for a thought that had passed through her
mind, it was true; if Lushington loved her, how could he make an
obstacle of what she had been so ready to overlook? The Greek's direct
speeches had appealed to her, while he had been at her side. But now,
she wished with all her heart that Lushington would appear to ask her
questions, and let her answer them. She had a most unreasonable
impression that she had somehow angered him, and wronged herself in his
eyes. She would not ask herself whether she loved him still, or whether
she had really loved him at all, but she longed to see him. He had said
that he was leaving again in the evening, but perhaps he would think
better of it and come out to see her. She even thought of writing to
him, for she knew his London address. He lived in Bolton Street,
Piccadilly, and she remembered his telling her that his windows looked
upon a blank brick wall opposite, in which he sought inspiration and
sometimes found it. Sometimes, he had said, he saw her face there.

Then she remembered the last hour they had spent together at Madame
Bonanni's, and the quiet dignity and courage of his behaviour under
circumstances that might almost have driven a sensitive man out of his
senses.

She thought of him a great deal that afternoon, and the result of her
thoughts was that she resolved not to go to Logotheti's house again,
though she had a vague idea that such a resolution should not be
connected with Lushington, if she meant to respect her own
independence. But when she had reached this complicated state of mind,
both Lushington and Logotheti took themselves suddenly out of the
sphere of her meditations, and she was standing once more on the
half-lighted stage, singing 'Anges pures' into the abyss of the dark
and empty house.

The evening post brought Margaret three notes from Paris. One, in bad
French, w