“Margie!” he cried, steadying himself by the curtains.
At the sound of that cry, and at sight of his thin, white face, she half started toward him with an inarticulate exclamation. But suddenly she remembered, and advancing formally, gave him her hand to shake, and said in a conventional tone, as though they had met the day before: “Good afternoon, Mr. Malloy. I hope you are improving in health.”
Robert dropped weakly into a chair, and with his eyes still fixed on her face, said to Mrs. Malloy: “Mother, is it a cruel hallucination? Or is it really my Margie, standing there?”
Meg flushed deeply, but before she could say anything Mrs. Malloy interposed: “Let me explain, dear. I have been a foolish meddler. I wired Margie that I needed her, and she came, thinking you had gone into the monastery.”
An awkward pause followed, which Robert broke, falteringly: “Margie, it is not a time to stand on formality, and I know from my former experience that a delay in speaking is sometimes disastrous. So I am going to ask you a question in the presence of my mother. Will you be my wife?”
Meg’s face was white, and her voice quietly cold as she replied, “I am not unmindful of the very great honor you do me, Robert, but I must decline it.” And turning to Mrs. Malloy, “Is there a train I can take to-night?”
“No, dear, not till morning. Let me take you to your room, and you can rest, for I know you are tired.”
“Thank you,” Meg said sweetly, and giving Robert a little nod she followed his mother from the room.
After opening her door for her and seeing that everything was as she had ordered, even to the flowers, and the cheerful grate fire, Mrs. Malloy turned to leave the room. At the threshold she paused, and Meg was really concerned to see the look of age which had overtaken her features. “You would better rest a while,” she said, “and I will have you called in time for dinner.”
When she was alone Meg threw herself down in a chair before the fire and sat staring into the glowing embers. She was deeply wounded and offended. “Do they think I have no self-respect?” she said to herself. “Mrs. Malloy, knowing me to be dying of love for Robert, and being accustomed to gratifying his slightest whim, hands me to him on a platter, with her compliments. And he, so polite, having been taught to say ‘Please,’ and ‘Thank you,’ accepts me graciously. ‘Thank you, Mother dear; you have the knack of always getting me just what I want. It’s very pretty. I would prefer it to that monastery or any other toy.’”