to go away. I like it much better here than I should like being in
New York. It is quiet; I am of some use; I am--I am really contented
here."

"Since when have you learned to speak so falsely? You are probably
afraid of me! You see, and correctly, that I am not to be put off this
time, as I was when I came before--put off with a little preaching, a
few compliments and exhortations. You are afraid I shall smash the
pretty glass walls you have built up round your sham life here, your
charming domestic life, your happy home circle."

"I don't think you have any right to take that tone."

"Yes, I have; the right of our love."

"We must forget that. We are not growing any younger; at least I am not.
Men are different, perhaps."

Winthrop laughed. "Very well done, Margaret. But not well enough. You
are trying to pretend that you have outlived it; and that I have. But
our two faces contradict that; yours is wasted and drawn, and look at
me--have I the appearance of a man who is even moderately happy?"

She had not trusted herself to look at him much; she remembered too
vividly Garda's description--"changed," "bitter," "hard." But
involuntarily now she did look at him. And she saw all that Garda had
described; and more.

"What is it you wish me to do?" she asked, hurriedly.

"Come away from here."

"But where?"

"Anywhere you like.--Where I could see you sometimes."

"No--no."

"Very well, then; anywhere you like. And I won't see you."

"It wouldn't do me any good!" These words burst from her almost
unconsciously. She dropped into the nearest chair.

He came and seated himself near her in silence.

"You saw Garda before she went abroad?" she said, beginning again.

"Yes."

"She wished to see you, I know."

"How you say that--how timidly! Garda, at least, is not troubled by
timidity."

"Perhaps you will go abroad again yourself?"

"Not to see Mrs. Lucian Spenser! Would you like to have me go?" he
added.

"Yes."

"I am very much obliged to you. It's a plan, is it?--you wouldn't have
spoken of her otherwise. I see; I am growing older, I'm lonely, I'm sad;
perhaps I'm wicked. A 'home,' therefore, is the thing I need--you women
think so much of a home--and so you've planned this. It's very
ingenious. But unfortunately I don't fall in with it. Don't waste any
more time talking of Garda," he said, sharply.

Margaret's head was bent.

"It isn't possible that you have thought I _could_ care for her,
Ma