“I suppose I ought to return the compliment,” she said, “and declare that no cousin who had been kept so long out of his own money ever behaved so well as you have done. I can assure you that I have thought of it very often,—of the injustice that has been involuntarily done to you.”

“It has been unjust, has it not?” said he, piteously, thinking of his injuries. “So much of it has gone in that oilcloth business, and all for nothing!”

“I’m glad at any rate that Walter’s share did not go.”

He knew that this was not the kind of conversation which he had desired to commence, and that it must be changed before anything could be settled. So he shook himself and began again.

“And now, Margaret, as the lawyers have finished their part of the business, ours must begin.”

She had been standing hitherto and had felt herself to be strong enough to stand, but at the sound of these words her knees had become weak under her, and she found a retreat upon the sofa. Of course she said nothing as he came and stood over her.

“I hope you have understood,” he continued, “that while all this was going on I could propose no arrangement of any kind.”

“I know you have been very much troubled.”

“Indeed I have. It seems that any blackguard has a right to publish any lies that he likes about any one in any of the newspapers, and that nobody can do anything to protect himself! Sometimes I have thought that it would drive me mad!”

But he again perceived that he was getting out of the right course in thus dwelling upon his own injuries. He had come there to alleviate her misfortunes, not to talk about his own.

“It is no good, however, talking about all that; is it, Margaret?”

“It will cease now, will it not?”

“I cannot say. I fear not. Whichever way I turn, they abuse me for what I do. What business is it of theirs?”

“You mean their absurd story—calling you a lion.”

“Don’t talk of it, Margaret.”

Then Margaret was again silent. She by no means wished to talk of the story, if he would only leave it alone.

“And now about you.”

Then he came and sat beside her, and she put her hand back behind the cushion on the sofa so as to save herself from trembling in his presence. She need not have cared much, for, let her tremble ever so much, he had then no capacity for perceiving it.

“Come, Margaret; I want to do what is best for us both. How shall it be?”

“John, you have children, and you should do what is best for them.”

Then there was a pause again, and when he spoke after a while, he was looking down at the floor and poking among the pattern on the carpet with his stick.

“Margaret, when I first asked you to marry me, you refused me.”