"However I suppose you've pretty well forgotten about the whole thing now?" "The deuce you do!" "Did you soon get to be glad you hadn't married them--the other twenty or so?" "That varied. Besides, if I had married them, I might have become quite content." "They'd have got to look older, of course," Bernadette reflected. "But people ought to be content with--well, with being content, oughtn't they?" "Well, you see, you're generally young when you're in love--comparatively, at all events. You get content with being content--as you neatly put it--rather later." "That means you're not in love any more?" "Life has its stages, Bernadette." She gave a quick little shiver. "Horrid!" "And children come, bringing all sorts of ties. That must make a difference." The old man sighed lightly, clasping together his thin hands with their gleaming rings. "Oh, a tremendous difference, of course," Bernadette made orthodox reply. In effect just what she had said to Oliver Wyse himself when she lunched with him at the Lancaster! "Among other things, you forget Margaret," she had said, reinforcing her resistance with every plea which came to her hand. "I don't forget her, but I think first of all of you," had been his reply. It was no doubt true that he thought of her before the child; whether he thought of her first of all was much more open to question. "She depends on me so much," she had urged, sounding even to herself rather conventional. Did little Margaret really depend on her so much--that demure prim child, self-centred, busy in a world of her own with her fancies and her toys? She was shy and reserved, she neither gave nor seemed to expect demonstrations of affection. She was her father's daughter and promised to grow up like him in mind, as she already showed a physical likeness. The natural bond existed between mother and child and was felt. It was not strengthened by any congeniality of disposition, nor by the tender appeal of frailty or sickness--despite that doctor's advice, Margaret was robust and healthy. They did not see much of one another really, not even at Hilsey. There was so much to do. Bernadette was not a habit in her child's life and doings; she was an interlude, and probably not seldom an interruption. Still there they were--mother and child. And the child would grow up, understand, and remember. No woman could make light of all that; if Oliver thought she could, he did her gross injustice. No, he who loved her would not do her wrong. Then he must understand that duty to the child was a great thing with her. And yet he said there ought to be a greater!