to the position of her hat. 'It makes no difference. Nothing makes any.'
Her friend, across the room, looked at her with a certain blankness. 'Of what does he accuse you?'
'Of nothing whatever,' said Mrs. Despard, turning round. 'Not of the least little thing!' she sighed, coming back.
'Then he made no scene?'
'No—it was too awful.'
Again the girl faltered. 'Do you mean he was———?'
'I mean he was dreadful. I mean I can't bear it.'
'Does he want to come back?'
'Immediately and forever. "Beginning afresh," he calls it. Fancy,' the poor woman cried, rueful and wide-eyed as with a vision of more things than she could name—'fancy beginning afresh!' Once more, in her fidget, appalled, she sank into the nearest seat.
This image of a recommencement had just then, for both ladies, in all the circumstances, a force that filled the room—that seemed for a little fairly to make a hush. 'But if he can't oblige you?' Margaret presently returned.
Mrs. Despard sat sombre. 'He can oblige me.'
'Do you mean by law?'
'Oh,' she wailed, 'I mean by everything! By my having been the fool———!' She dropped to her intolerable sense of it.
Margaret watched her an instant. 'Oh, if you say it of yourself!'
Mrs. Despard gave one of her springs. 'And don't you say it?'
Margaret met her eyes, but changed colour. 'Say it of you?'
'Say it of yourself.'
They fixed each other awhile; it was deep—it was even hard. 'Yes,' said the girl at last. But she turned away.
Her companion's eyes followed her as she moved; then Mrs.
