"Margaret," came in his voice. And, oh, the difference in it!--the
note of tenderness--no, it was not imagination, it was really
there! Her eyes filled and her bosom heaved.

"Are you joining me at breakfast?"

"Come in," cried she.

When the door did not open she went and opened it. There stood HE!
If he had greeted her with a triumphant, proprietorial expression
she would have been--well, it would have given her a lowered
opinion of his sensibility. But his look was just right--dazzled,
shy, happy. Nor did he make one of his impetuous rushes. He almost
timidly took her hand, kissed it; and it was she who sought his
shoulder--gladly, eagerly, with a sudden, real shyness.
"Margaret," he said. "Mine--aren't you?"

Here was the Joshua she was to know thenceforth, she felt. This
Joshua would enable her to understand, or, rather, to disregard,
so far as she personally was concerned, the Josh, tempestuous,
abrupt, often absurd, whom the world knew. But--As soon as they
went where the guides were, the familiar Josh returned--boyish,
boisterous, rather foolish in trying to be frivolous and light.
Still--what did it matter? As soon as they should be alone again--

When they set out after breakfast her Joshua still did not return,
as she had confidently expected. The obstreperous one remained,
the one that was the shrewdly-developed cover for his everlasting
scheming mind. "What an unending ass I've been making of myself,"