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in his voice. "It is the veil, isn't it? You are not pale?" She shook her head.

"No, it is the veil." They pulled up at the door of the hotel. There was another fly there, but empty, the horse with a nose-bag, feeding, the coachman not on the box.

"The carriage is to wait. You can take the bag up to my room," he said to the porter. Then turned to help Margaret.

"Send out tea for two as quickly as you can. The table is not occupied, is it?"

"There is a lady walking about," the man said. "I don't know as she 'as ordered tea. She's been here some time, seems to be waiting for some one."

"Oh! we don't want any one but ourselves," Margaret exclaimed, still with that breathless strange agitation.

"I'll see to that, milady." He touched his cap.

When they walked down the path to where, on the terrace overlooking the sea, the iron table and two chairs awaited them, Margaret said reminiscently:

"I sat and waited for you here whilst you saw your room, washed your hands …"

"And today I cannot leave you even to wash my hands."

The deep tenderness in his voice penetrated, shook her heart. He remembered what they had for tea last time, and ordered it again when the