“Really, I shouldn’t mind at all. I’ve stood by the family all my life, and I’ll stand by Charlie now; but I’ve never been deceived into believing that I cared for Helen or Henry. I wouldn’t hurt them even by saying what I think of them to anybody except you, but I prefer not to see them. That’s one reason why I’m going abroad. We sha’n’t be so intimate after I get back.” She rose languidly from her chair and fidgeted nervously with some books on the table. “How long do you plan to stay?” I asked, crossing the room to her side. “You think it will take me a good while to get free of their clutches? I’m going to stay till I feel safe, that’s all. I don’t want to do anything for anybody again, and I sha’n’t come back as long as there’s a chance of my being asked.” She spoke vindictively, with more vehemence than I had ever seen in her. She gave me the impression that the stifled flame of rebellion was breaking free at last, but only when the food for it was exhausted. In her trim and faded prettiness she was mildly tragic--futilely tragic would perhaps be the better phrase. Life and Mrs. Longbow had sapped her vitality; that was clear. They had taken much from her, and given her little in exchange. I wondered fatuously whether she had chosen well twenty years before in devoting herself to reform and her mother rather than to me. Doubtless I hesitated longer than was conventionally polite over framing my reply, for she turned to me with a rather mocking laugh and went on: “It’s very sad about me, isn’t it? But you needn’t pity me, Robert. You gave me a chance to get out once, you remember, and I chose to do good to all the world instead of battening on you. It was foolish of me, but it was probably a lucky thing for you.” “I’ve never married, Margaret,” I answered, feeling somewhat grim and a little uncomfortable. “Pure habit, I suppose,” she answered lightly, “but it ought to give you satisfaction that I’m sorry both of us haven’t. You needn’t be frightened, even though Helen has the absurd notion of throwing me at your head now. You see what I am--just dregs. Mother and Helen have never got over thinking me a young girl, and they’ve always planned for you to marry whatever was left of me after they’d finished.” “I’ve never been very proud of my own behavior,” I put in. “I ought to have been able to make you marry me back there, but--” “You were no match for mother.” Margaret ended the sentence for me. “Nobody ever was. But even she shouldn’t have expected to keep that old affair in cold storage for twenty years. I’m a baby to be complaining, but I can’t help it this once. Things are so terribly dead that I can safely tell you now that you ought to marry--not that I suppose you have been restrained on my account for some fifteen years! I’m merely showing you my death-certificate in the hope that you’ll avoid my unhappy end.”