But Margaret was not thinking of Malone, nor even of the play, concerning which, though she heard them not, there were reports, besides its failure, of misadventure and even death. She was thinking of Willie, and why he did not come home to be comforted. The two sat down alone to supper, of which neither could touch a mouthful; the antiquary full of woeful thoughts, the girl with only one question in her mind, ‘Why does he not come?’ The maid thought she had seen him at the door when her mistress got out of the carriage; there was certainly some young man with his hat pulled over his eyes, who had watched her into the house, and having, as it seemed, assured himself of her safety, had walked away. It was possible of course that this might have been Willie, but whither had he gone? ‘It is no use your waiting for William Henry,’ said the antiquary roughly; ‘why don’t you eat?’ She noticed that her uncle no longer spoke of ‘Samuel,’ and the change jarred upon her feelings, already strained and tried. It was no fault of Willie’s that the play had not succeeded, and it was cruel to visit such a misfortune upon his innocent head. ‘It is only natural that I should be anxious about him,’ she returned with some touch of resentment. ‘Pooh, pooh! why should you be anxious? He is no doubt supping with one of the players.’ His indifferent words struck her like a blow at random. Was it conceivable, after what had happened that evening, that Willie should prefer the society of another to her own? Above all, was it possible that that one should be Mrs. Jordan? She could not but notice how Flavia had fought for the play, and had hardly known whether to admire or detest her for it. If she had been in her place, and could have done it, she would have fought for it too, but then she would have an adequate motive. Why should that woman have dared so much for it when the others had performed their parts in so sluggish and perfunctory a manner? It must have been because she had her heart in it. And who could have their heart in a mere stage-play, a thing at the best full of fictitious woes and imaginary heroes? There must have been human love—or what such creatures took for love—to have enlisted her in its cause. Oh, why did not Willie come? As the night wore on apprehensions for her lover’s personal safety took the place of these jealous fears. What might not despair and disappointment have induced him to do? In her wretchedness and need of sympathy and consolation, she ventured to hint at this to Mr. Erin. ‘It is surely very odd, uncle. Willie ought to be home by this time at all events. Should we not send somewhere?’ ‘What nonsense! Whither should we send, and why? The lad is old enough to take care of himself.’ ‘But perhaps in his dejection and—and—misery, uncle, he might not have any care of himself.’