Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands, combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution.
"I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot."
"He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa."
"I knew—I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed."
Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.
"I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me."
"It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so promptly."
"It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse."
"Indeed?"
"She has just gone to Germany."
"She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, certainly, it is quite safe—safe, absolutely, now."
"You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't meet him again."
"I did think it best."
"Now why?"
"That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a little losing her expression of annoyance. "I think you put it best in your letter—it was an instinct, which may be wrong."
"It wasn't that your son still—"
"Oh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see."
"Then what was it?"
