“I never read novels,” replied Wilbur absently, “haven’t much time you know.”

“Oh, I suppose not, but that is such a wonderful book and only think, nobody has the least idea who wrote it, and it does make it so interesting.  I thought myself it was written by Wilbur Jack until I came to a sentence which I could quite understand and that put him out of the question.  Of course, Wilbur Jack is such a great genius that no young girl like myself pretends to understand him, but that is why I worship him.  I tell Mamma I think he is the ideal writer for young girls, so elevating.  And then I thought The Poor Lady might have been written by Mrs. Eudora Peasely because she is always so lucid and I came to a sentence which I could not understand at all.  Oh, dear, I have thought of all the living writers as writing that book and have had to give it up, and of course the dead ones are out of the question.”

“Of course,” said Wilbur gravely, and then his Margaret stood up and took some printed matter from an envelope and instantly the situation became strangely tense.  Men and women turned eager faces; they could not have told why eager, but they were all conscious of something unusual in the atmosphere and every expression upon those expectant faces suddenly changed into one which made them as a listening unit.  Then Margaret began.

Chapter VII

Wilbur Edes thought he had never seen his wife look as beautiful as she did standing there before them all with those fluttering leaves of paper in her hand.  A breeze came in at an opposite window and Margaret’s blue feather tossed in it; her yellow hair crisped and fluffed and the paper fluttered.  Margaret stood for an appreciable second surveying them all with a most singular expression.  It was compounded of honeyed sweetness, of triumph, and something else more subtle, the expression of a warrior entering battle and ready for death, yet terrible with defiance and the purpose of victory, and death for his foe.

Then Margaret spoke and her thin silvery voice penetrated to every ear in the room.

“Members of the Zenith Club and friends,” said Margaret, “I take the opportunity offered me to-night to disclose a secret which is a source of much joy to myself, and which I am sure will be a source of joy to you also.  I trust that since you are my friends and neighbours and associates in club work, you will acquit me of the charge of egotism and credit me with my whole motive, which is, I think, not an unworthy one coming to you in joy, as I would come in sorrow for your sympathy and understanding.  I am about to read an extract from a book whose success has given me the most unqualified surprise and delight, knowing as I do that a reading by an author from her own work always increases the interest even though she may not be an able expositor by word of mouth of what she has written.”