I will save my dearest Maurice at all risks if I can, no matter what
grief it costs _me_. Who am I"--with a picturesque sigh--"that I
should interfere with the prospects of my child? And this girl! If
Maurice can be persuaded to have her----"

"My dear Tessie, what a word!" says Margaret, rising, with a
distinct frown. "Has he _only_ to ask, then, and have?"

"Beyond doubt," says Lady Rylton insolently, waving her fan to and
fro, "if he does it in the right way. In all my experience, my dear
Margaret, I have never known a woman to frown upon a man who was as
handsome, as well-born, as _chic_ as Maurice! Even though the man
might be a--well"--smiling and lifting her shoulders--"it's a rude
word, but--well, a very devil!"

She looks deliberately at Margaret over her fan, who really appears
in this dull light _nearly_ as young as she is. The look is a cruel
one, hideously cruel. Even Marian Bethune, whose bowels of
compassion are extraordinary small, changes colour, and lets her
red-brown eyes rest on the small woman lounging in the deep chair
with a rather murderous gaze.

Yet Lady Rylton smiles on, enjoying the changes in Margaret's face.
It is a terrible smile, coming from so fragile a creature.

Margaret's face has grown white, but she answers coldly and with
deliberation. All that past horrible time--her lover, his
unworthiness, his desertion--all her young, _young_ life lies once
more massacred before her.