"Where's Madam Bowker?" inquired he. "Did she blow up and bolt?"

"Oh, no," answered Margaret, seating herself with a dreary sigh.
"She's gone to her sitting-room to write with her own hand the
announcement that's to be given out. She says the exact wording is
very important."

"So it is," said Grant. "All that's said will take its color from
the first news."

"No doubt." Margaret's tone was indifferent, absent.

Arkwright hesitated to introduce the painful subject, the husband;
yet he had a certain malicious pleasure in doing it, too. "Josh
wants to come up," said he. "He's down at the desk, champing and
tramping and pawing holes in the floor." And he looked at her, to
note the impression of this vivid, adroitly-reminiscent picture.

"Not yet," said Margaret curtly and coldly. All of a sudden she
buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

"Rita--dear Rita!" exclaimed Grant, his own eyes wet, "I know just
how you feel. Am I not suffering, too? I thought I didn't care,
but I did--I do. Rita, it isn't too late yet--"

She straightened; dried her eyes. "Stop that, Grant!" she said
peremptorily. "Stop it!"

His eyes sank. "I can't bear to see you suffer."