Margaret's face cleared before a satirical smile. "What a romancer
you are, Lucia." Then, with a laugh: "I'm taking myself
ridiculously seriously today. Temper--giving way to temper--is a
sure sign of defective intelligence or of defective digestion."
"Is it about--about Mr. Craig?"
Margaret reddened, dropped to the bench near her sister--evidence
that she was willing to talk, to confide--so far as she ever
confided her inmost self--to the one person she could trust.
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
"No; not yet."
"But he's going to?"
Margaret gave a queer smile. "He doesn't think so."
"He wouldn't dare!" exclaimed Lucia. "Why, he's not in the same
class with you."
"So! The little romancer is not so romantic that she forgets her
snobbishness."
"I mean, he's so rude and noisy. I DETEST him!"
"So do I--at times."
Lucia looked greatly relieved. "I thought you were encouraging
him. It seemed sort of--of--cheap, unworthy of you, to care to
flirt with a man like that."
Margaret's expression became strange indeed. "I am not flirting
with him," she said gravely. "I'm going to marry him."
Lucia was too amazed to speak, was so profoundly shocked that her
usually rosy cheeks grew almost pale.
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