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Her eyes were very soft; there was a faint smile on her thin pink lips
which gave the look of coldness, of reticence to her face. With her head
bent and her hands folded in her lap, she sat there waiting
pensively--for what? It occurred to him suddenly with a shock that she
was deeper, far deeper than he had ever suspected.
"You are so different from the other girls, Margaret," he said at last,
oppressed by the old difficulty of making conversation. "You don't
belong to the same world with Mary Byrd and--" He was going to add
"Patty Vetch," but he checked himself before the name escaped him.
She seemed to melt rather than break from her attitude of waiting, so
gently did her movements sink into the shadowy glow of the firelight.
"No, I don't," she replied, with a touch of sadness. "I sometimes wish
that I did."
"You wish that you did!" Here was surprise at last. "But, why, in
Heaven's name, should you wish that when you are everything that they
ought to be?"
"As if that mattered!" There was a tone in her voice that was new to
him.


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