All things have an end, however, an indisputable proposition with which Margaret had buoyed herself up repeatedly during this trying visit, and at last Major King rose to go. He was not going to be browbeaten into a hasty retreat, however. Not he! He would take his time about it, and by way of a parting assertion of ease, he took up a handsome book from the table, and after reading the title aloud, with a jocular air and a somewhat defective pronunciation, he tossed it down so carelessly that the beautiful _edition de luxe_ fell to the floor, with its delicate leaves crushed open beneath its heavy cover. He made no effort to recover it, until he saw Margaret stooping to do so, when he hastily picked it up, and flung rather than placed it on the table. When Margaret had shaken hands with him, and said good-night, with no tinge of abatement of the courtesy which had characterized her conduct throughout, she looked toward the library and saw that Mr. Gaston had risen and turned toward them, bowing to Major King with exactly the same motion and expression as that with which he had acknowledged their introduction. There was one difference, however. The little frigid bow was given in perfect silence, and not one word of farewell was spoken. Major King responded by a short, defiant nod, and a flashing glance which might have surprised the other, had he allowed his gaze to rest upon the visitor’s face long enough to perceive it. There was a necessary delay in the hall over the rubbers and overcoat, which it seemed to Margaret that he put on with elaborate slowness, and then, at last, the front door closed behind Major King with a loud, contemptuous bang. The ordeal was over, but it left poor Margaret with a heavy heart; she felt disgusted with everything and everybody. “There’s not a pin to choose between them,” she was saying to herself, “only Mr. Gaston was the host, and Mr. Gaston is the more enlightened man, and therefore more bound to know better.” She was too angry to look at Louis, and was leaving the room with a quiet “good-night,” when the young man arrested her by saying, in a tone of undisguised indignation: “Twenty minutes past eleven o’clock; and a first visit too! This is intolerable!” Margaret looked straight into his eyes, with a steady glance of scorn, that she made no effort to disguise. “I dare say Major King was unaware of the lateness of the hour,” she said, in a cool, high tone. “Good-night, Mr. Gaston.” And she walked quietly out of the room, and mounted the stairs to her own apartment, angrier than she had been yet. She closed the door behind her, turned the gas on full, and stretched herself out at her whole length on the lounge, clasping her hands under her head. Her thoughts were too confused to be formulated, but the one that predominated over all the rest was that she could never like Louis Gaston again. She had the feeling that would have made her wish to fight him had she been a man.