There was a half-humorous bitterness in his voice
that Margaret noted silently. So (she thought)
he had hoped for a moment that at the last Frederick
R. Woods had relented toward him. It grieved her,
in a dull fashion, to see him so mercenary. It
grieved her—though she would have denied
it emphatically—to see him so disappointed.
Since he wanted the money so much, she would have
liked for him to have had it, worthless as he was,
for the sake of the boy he had been.
“Thank you,” she said, coldly, as she
took the paper; “I will give it to my father.
He will do what is necessary. Good-night, Mr.
Woods.”
Then she locked up the desk in a businesslike fashion
and turned to him, and held out her hand.
“Good-night, Billy,” said this perfectly
inconsistent young woman. “For a moment
I thought Uncle Fred had altered his will in your
favour. I almost wish he had.”
Billy smiled a little.
“That would never have done,” he said,
gravely, as he shook hands; “you forget what
a sordid, and heartless, and generally good-for-nothing
chap I am, Peggy. It’s much better as it
is.”
Only the tiniest, the flimsiest fiction, her eyes
craved of him. Even now, at the eleventh hour,
lie to me, Billy Woods, and, oh, how gladly I will
believe!
But he merely said “Good-night, Peggy,”
and went out of the room. His broad shoulders
had a pathetic droop, a listlessness.
Margaret was glad. Of course, she was glad.
At last, she had told him exactly what she thought
of him. Why shouldn’t she be glad?
She was delighted.
So, by way of expressing this delight, she sat down
at the desk and began to cry very softly.
Having duly considered the emptiness of existence,
the unworthiness of men, the dreary future that awaited
her—though this did not trouble her greatly,
as she confidently expected to die soon—and
many other such dolorous topics, Miss Hugonin decided
to retire for the night. She rose, filled with
speculations as to the paltriness of life and the
probability of her eyes being red in the morning.
“It will be all his fault if they are,”
she consoled herself. “Doubtless he’ll
be very much pleased. After robbing me of all
faith in humanity, I dare say the one thing needed
to complete his happiness is to make me look like
a fright. I hate him! After making me miserable,
now, I suppose he’ll go off and make some other
woman miserable. Oh, of course, he’ll make
love to the first woman he meets who has any money.
I’m sure she’s welcome to him. I only
pity any woman who has to put up with him.
No, I don’t,” Margaret decided, after
reflection; “I hate her, too!”
Miss Hugonin went to the door leading to the hallway
and paused. Then—I grieve to relate
it—she shook a little pink-tipped fist in
the air.
“I detest you!” she commented, between
her teeth; “oh, how dare you make me
feel so ashamed of the way I’ve treated you!”
