"WHAT?"
"I ordered him out of the house," stammered her mother.
"I wish you'd stick to your novels and let me attend to my own
affairs," cried Margaret, pale with fury. "Is he gone?"
"I left Williams attending to it. Surely, Rita--"
But Margaret had flung the door open and was darting down the
stairs. "Where is he?" she demanded fiercely of Williams, still in
the drawing-room doorway.
"In the garden, ma'am," said Williams. "He didn't pay no
attention."
But Margaret was rushing through the drawing-room. At the French
windows she caught sight of him, walking up and down in his usual
quick, alert manner, now smelling flowers, now staring up into the
trees, now scrutinizing the upper windows of the house. She drew
back, waited until she had got her breath and had composed her
features. Then, with the long skirts of her graceful pale-blue
dress trailing behind her, and a big white sunshade open and
resting upon her shoulder, she went down the veranda steps and
across the lawn toward him. He paused, gazed at her in frank--
vulgarly frank--admiration; just then, it seemed to her, he never
said or did or looked anything except in the vulgarest way.
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