"Here he is!" exclaimed Josh, slapping him
enthusiastically on the back. "Grant, Margaret wants to talk with
you. I must run along." And before either could speak he had
darted away, plowing his way rudely through the crowd.
Margaret and Grant watched his progress--she smiling, he surly and
sneering. "Yet you like him," said Margaret.
"In a way, yes," conceded Arkwright. "He has a certain sort of
magnetism." He pulled himself up short. "This morning," said he,
"I apologized to him for my treachery; and here I am at it again."
"I don't mind," said Margaret. "It's quite harmless."
"That's it!" exclaimed Grant in gloomy triumph. "You can't care
for me because you think me harmless."
"Well, aren't you?"
"Yes," he admitted, "I couldn't give anybody--at least, not a
blase Washington society girl--anything approaching a sensation. I
understand the mystery at last."
"Do you?" said Margaret, with a queer expression in her eyes. "I
wish I did."
Grant reflected upon this, could make nothing of it. "I don't
believe you're really in love with him," he finally said.
"Was that what you told him you wished to talk to me about?"
"I didn't tell him I wanted to talk with you," protested Grant.
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