“I know, I know.” Margaret's heart fairly froze, and she stared coldly and held herself quite erect. Was it possible that the woman would dare to intimate that she cared to hear about that shameful intimacy? Had her ideas of art, her dreams of France and bohemian freedom from conventional laws, led her into the error of thinking that she, Margaret Dearing, would for a moment listen to such a confidence? “Only to-day I received a long letter from him,” Dora went on, unobservant of the change that had come over her visitor. “Let me get it. I am sure you will think more kindly of him when you have read what he writes. His father has been out to see him, and they are quite reconciled now. It has made Fred very happy. You see, there is no reason now why he may not come home. I want you to see the letter, for he mentions you in it, and I am sure, seeing how sweet and kind you are to me, that--” “I don't care to see it!” Margaret broke in, frigidly. “Please don't ask me. I am just going. I only had a few moments. I thank you very much for showing me your pictures.” Dora dropped her eyes in surprise, for the gaze of her haughty visitor was full of undisguised anger. “I didn't mean to offend you,” she said, humbly, “and I hope you will pardon me. I was only trying to do Fred a good turn, and I suppose I did it awkwardly. It is very good of you to come. Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” And Margaret swept from the room. As she crossed the porch and passed the little architect of a church of no mean design, he raised his eyes and said: “Look, lady; that is the tower for the big bell (ding-dong!), and this is the door--” But she paid no heed to him, as, with a shrug, almost of disdain, she passed on to the gate. “He is writing to her; he has been writing to her all these years,” she said within herself. “Perhaps he has even met her--she may have been to see him in other places. That is why she's lived so quietly--it gave her the chance to go and come as she liked. Perhaps he has put those ideas of Paris and free-love into her head. When he talked to me in New York he didn't mean that--that he cared for me deeply. He meant only that he wanted me and the rest of us here to overlook what he had done. When he told his silly old father that he would not come back unless I forgave him, he meant--he thought--he was trying to apologize--actually _apologize_--for having made love to me. I have lowered myself by going to her. It gave her that sly chance to stab me. She thinks I care. She thinks that I have been crying my eyes out about him. They have talked me over time after time. Oh, the shame of it--the utter _shame_ of it!” CHAPTER XX