“Yes.  I saw,” sadly.

“Well, why should he complain, then?” says Neilson, who can see the right and the wrong so much better because it is not his own case.  “To tell you the truth, Margaret, I think Mrs. Bethune should not be here.”

“I think that, too.  But it appears it was Tita who invited her.”

“My dear girl, who else?  But there is such a thing as coercion.”

“It was the prettiest, the most cordial letter.  I read it.”

“Then you think she knows nothing of that old affair?”

“Old?” She looks quickly at Neilson.  “Do you think it is old—­worn out, I mean?”

“No, I don’t,” says Neilson promptly.  “And in my opinion, the sooner Mrs. Bethune terminates her visit the better for everyone.”

“What an unhappy marriage!” says Margaret, with a sigh.  “All marriages are unhappy, I think.”

“Not a bit of it.  Most of the married people we know would not separate even were the power given them to do so.”

“That is merely because they have grown necessary to each other.”

“Well, what is love?” says Neilson, who is always defending his great cause against Margaret’s attacks.  “Was there ever a lover yet, who did not think the woman he loved necessary to him?”

“It is not the higher form of love,” says Margaret, who still dreams of an ideal, born of her first attachment—­an ideal that never in this practical world could have been realized, and if it could, would have been condemned at once as tiresome to the last degree.

“It is high enough for most people,” says Neilson.  “Don’t grow pessimistic, Margaret.  There is a great deal of light and joy and laughter in the world, and I know no one so framed to enjoy it as yourself, if only you would give yourself full sway.  You condemn marriage, yet how can you speak of it with authority—­you who have not tried it?”

“Oh, do, do stop,” says Margaret, lifting her hand.  “You are getting on that—­that wretched old tack again.”

“So I am.  I know it.  I shall be on that tack to the end of my life.  And I think it so unfair of you to condemn anybody without even a hearing.”

“Why, I must,” says she, laughing in spite of herself.

“No, you needn’t.  Marry me, and then give judgment!”

“I shall never marry,” says Margaret, with cold decision; then, as if ashamed of her tone, she looks up at him.  It is rather a shy look, and makes her even more admirable in the eyes of the man watching her. "Why will you persist?” asks she.

“I must.  I must.”

“It sounds like a doom,” says she lightly, though tears are gathering in her eyes.  “Don’t waste your life. Don’t!"

“I am not wasting it.  I am spending it on you,” says the Colonel, who is really a delightful lover.

“Ah! but that is so dreadful—­for me!”

“Do I worry you, then?”