it quite clear to us that his attachment is—has, in short, not been rewarded. But don’t you see that that’s the worst part of it? There’d be much more hope of his recovering if Mrs. Robert Ransom had—had—”
Margaret’s voice broke from her in a cry. “I am Mrs. Robert Ransom,” she said.
If Lady Caroline Duckett had hitherto given her hostess the impression of a person not easily silenced, this fact added sensibly to the effect produced by the intense stillness which now fell on her.
She sat quite motionless, her large bangled hands clasped about the meagre fur boa she had unwound from her neck on entering, her rusty black veil pushed up to the edge of a “fringe” of doubtful authenticity, her thin lips parted on a gasp that seemed to sharpen itself on the edges of her teeth. So overwhelming and helpless was her silence that Margaret began to feel a motion of pity beneath her indignation—a desire at least to facilitate the excuses which must terminate their disastrous colloquy. But when Lady Caroline found voice she did not use it to excuse herself.
“You can’t be,” she said, quite simply.
“Can’t be?” Margaret stammered, with a flushing cheek.
“I mean, it’s some mistake. Are there two Mrs. Robert Ransoms in the same town? Your family arrangements are so extremely puzzling.” She had a farther rush of enlightenment. “Oh, I see! I ought of course to have asked for Mrs. Robert Ransom Junior!”
The idea sent her to her feet with a haste which showed her impatience to make up for lost time.
“There is no other Mrs. Robert Ransom at Wentworth,” said Margaret.
“No other—no ‘Junior’? Are you sure?” Lady Caroline fell back into her seat again. “Then I simply don’t see,” she murmured.
Margaret’s blush had fixed itself on her throbbing forehead. She remained standing, while her strange visitor continued to gaze at her with a perturbation in which the consciousness of indiscretion had evidently as yet no part.
“I simply don’t see,” she repeated.
Suddenly she sprang up, and advancing to Margaret, laid an inspired hand on her arm. “But, my dear woman, you can help us out all the same; you can help us to find out who it is—and you will, won’t you? Because, as it’s not you, you can’t in the least mind what I’ve been saying—”
Margaret, freeing her arm from her visitor’s hold, drew back a step; but Lady Caroline instantly rejoined her.
“Of course, I can see that if it had been, you might have been annoyed: I dare say I put the case stupidly—but I’m so bewildered by this new development—by his using you all this time as a pretext—that I really don’t know where to turn for light on the mystery—”
She had Margaret in her imperious grasp again, but the latter broke from her with a more resolute gesture.
“I’m afraid I have no light to give you,” she began; but once more Lady Caroline caught her up.
“Oh, but do please understand me! I condemn Guy most strongly for using your name—when we all know you’d been so amazingly kind to him! I haven’t a word to say in his defence—but of course the important thing now is: who is the woman, since you’re not?”
The question rang out loudly, as if all the pale puritan corners of the room flung it back with a shudder at the speaker. In the silence that ensued Margaret felt the blood ebbing back to her heart; then she said, in a distinct and level voice: “I know nothing of the history of Mr. Dawnish.”
Lady Caroline gave a stare and a gasp. Her distracted hand groped for her boa, and she began to wind it mechanically about her long neck.
“It would really be an enormous help to us—and to poor Gwendolen Matcher,” she persisted pleadingly. “And you’d be doing Guy himself a good turn.”
Margaret remained silent and motionless while her visitor drew on one of the worn gloves she had pulled off to adjust her veil. Lady Caroline gave the veil a final twitch.
“I’ve come a tremendously long way,” she said, “and, since it isn’t you, I can’t think why you won’t help me....”
When the door had closed on her visitor Margaret Ransom went slowly up the stairs to her room. As she dragged her feet from one step to another, she remembered how she had sprung up the same steep flight after that visit of Guy Dawnish’s when she had looked in the glass and seen on her face the blush of youth.
When she