“Yes, isn’t it?” said Margaret, smiling. “He has so little sense, and he talks so much about himself. Here comes the postman!” She broke off suddenly, running to open the door herself, never divining that it would have been considered more decorous to wait until Thomas came up from the lower regions, and, with his usual deliberation, brought in the letters on his silver tray. CHAPTER VI. It happened one evening, a few days later on, that Margaret found herself once more _tête-à-tête_ with Louis Gaston. General and Mrs. Gaston had gone to a dinner, from which Margaret was not sorry to be excused. It was a cold and rainy evening in December, and the drawing-room, with its rich drapery and soft, deep Persian carpeting, was delightfully comfortable and warm, the wind, as it whistled and blustered outside, adding to this effect. The bright lights which hung from the ceiling, together with the glowing fire in the grate, shed a perfect wealth of warmth and radiance around, and brought out the delicious fragrance of the fresh flowers, which filled a china bowl on a distant table. Louis, as on the former occasion, bent over the table, just within the library door, with his back toward the drawing-room, and Margaret, as before, sat in the deep arm-chair before the fire. “This is the lucky chance that I’ve been waiting for,” said Gaston, turning to look at Margaret, as she settled herself with her book. “It is such a bad evening that I think we may hope for an immunity from visitors, and in a few minutes I shall lay by my work and come and try some new music I’ve provided, if you agree.” “I shall be charmed,” said Margaret, with ready acquiescence. “I feel just in the humor for it. I utterly repel the proposition, however, if you are going to sit up all night in consequence.” “I will not, I assure you. It is not necessary, in the least. I’ll just finish off a small bit that I am engaged on at present, and then put the rest by until to-morrow.” He returned to his work, and Margaret to her reading, and for a few moments the silence was unbroken, save by the sound of the wind and rain outside, and the soft little noises made by Louis with his pencil and rule. Suddenly the door-bell rang, and, as before, they looked at each other regretfully. Louis was about to make the same proposition that his companion had responded to so promptly on the former occasion, but a look at Margaret’s face checked him. An instinct which she scarcely understood herself, made it impossible for her to do a thing like that now. The fact that she was conscious of feeling a strong liking for Louis, restrained her from giving such a proof of it as this would be. “I am sorry to give up the music,” she said simply, as Thomas went by to the door, unchallenged. “There is still room to hope that it is a call that will not concern us.”