Rochefoucauld declares that there are excellent marriages, but no such thing as a delightful marriage. Perhaps school-girls may admit, as an abstract truth, that good schools exist; but few would allow that any place of education is “nice.” “It is really getting quite late,” Barton observed, reluctantly. He liked to watch the girl, whose beauty, made wan by illness, received just a touch of becoming red from the glow of the fire. He liked to talk to her; in fact, this was his most interesting patient by far. It would be miserably black and dark in his lodgings, he was aware; and non-paying patients would be importunate in proportion to their poverty. The poor are often the most exacting of hypochondriacs. Margaret noticed his reluctance to go contending with a sense of what he owed to propriety. “I am sure you must want tea; but I don’t like to ring. It is so short a time since I wore an apron and a cap and the rest of it myself at _The Bunhouse_, that I am afraid to ask the servants to do anything for me. They must dislike me; it is very natural.” “It is not natural at all,” said Barton, with conviction; “perfectly monstrous, on the other hand.” This little compliment eclipsed the effect of fire-light on the girl’s face. “Suppose I ring,” he added, “and then you can say, when Mary says ‘Did you ring, miss?’ ‘No, I didn’t ring; but as you _are_ here, Mary, would you mind bringing tea?’” “I don’t know if that would be quite honest,” said Margaret, doubtfully. “A pious fraud--a drawing-room comedy,” said Barton; “have we rehearsed it enough?” Then he touched the bell, and the little piece of private theatricals was played out, though one of the artists had some difficulty (as amateurs often have) in subduing an inclination to giggle. “Now, this is quite perfect,” said Barton, when he had been accommodated with a large piece of plum-cake. “This is the very kind of cake which we specially prohibit our patients to touch; and so near dinner-time, too! There should be a new proverb, ‘Physician, diet thyself.’ You see, we don’t all live on a very thin slice of cold bacon and a piece of dry toast.” “Mrs. St John Deloraine has never taken up that kind of life,” said Margaret. “She tries a good many new things,” Barton remarked. “Yes; but she is the best woman in the world!” answered the girl. “Oh, if you knew what a comfort it is to be with a lady again!” And she shuddered as she remembered her late chaperon. “I wonder if some day--you won’t think me very rude?” asked Barton--“you would mind telling me a little of your history?” “Mr. Cranley ordered me to say nothing about it,” answered Margaret; “and a great deal is very sad and hard to tell. You are all so kind, and everything is so quiet here, and safe and peaceful, that it frightens me to think of things that have happened, or may happen.” “They shall never happen, if you will trust me,” cried Barton, when a carriage was heard to stop at the gateway of the garden outside.