Meanwhile, Marjorie had hurried out. It was not true! She was not so
stupid and so silly that Hugh could never have fallen in love with her.
Why, he had fallen in love with her! He had wanted her for his wife, and
she--she in her blindness and her folly, in her stupidity, which her
aunt had but now been flinging in her teeth, had not realised that he
was the one man in her world, the only man, and that she loved him as
never, never could she love Tom Arundel or anyone else.

The little ancient disreputable car had been repaired by Rodding, the
village handyman, who by some conjuring trick had made it run again.
Marjorie started it.

She had made up her mind. She would go to Hurst Dormer, she would see
Hugh and--and quite what she would do she did not know. Everything was
on the knees of the gods, only she knew that she was very unhappy, a
very miserable, unhappy, foolish girl, who had got what she had asked
for, and found that she did not want it now she had it.

Piff, piff, paff, paff went the car, and Marjorie rolled off with a
succession of jerks, leaving behind an odoriferous cloud of smoke and
exhaust gases that lay like a blue mist along the drive, and presently
made Lady Linden cough and speak in uncomplimentary terms of motoring
and motorists generally.

On to Hurst Dormer Marjorie plugged, sad at heart, realising her folly.

"It is my fault," she felt miserably; "it is all my fault, and I am not
fair to Tom. He doesn't understand me. I see him look at me sometimes,
and I don't wonder at it. He doesn't understand me a bit; he has every
right to--to think--I love him, and I don't--I don't. I love Hugh!"

It was an hour later that Marjorie put in an appearance at Hurst Dormer.

Hugh was there, and Hugh was in. It brought relief. She wanted to cry
with the relief she felt.

Over the tea-table, where she poured out the tea from the old silver
Anne teapot, she looked at him, and saw many changes that one not loving
him, as she knew she did now, might have missed. The cheery frank smile
was there yet, but it had lost much of its happiness. His eyes were no
less kind, but they had a tired look about them, a wistful look. Oh,
that she might cheat herself into believing that their wistfulness was
for her! But Marjorie was not the little fool her aunt called her. She
was a woman, and was gifted with a woman's understanding.

"He does not love me now, not as he did. I had my chance, and I said no,
and now--now i