d
his head to view his visitor, who stood just within the door smiling
at him.

"What! Margaret!" he cried, as his head almost swam.

She closed the door softly and advanced into the room.

"I've just come to pay you a visit, Morgan," she said laughingly.
"Please say it was nice of me to come. What! Aren't you going to shake
hands with one of your oldest friends?"

He was not quite sure that his brain hadn't given way, and that her
presence was not a mere manifestation of the fact. He had never been
able to trust himself sufficiently to go near the Medhursts.
Sedulously keeping to the London south of the river and to the
immediate vicinity of his work--save on his rare visits to Belgrave
Square--he had run but little risk of encountering any of them or,
indeed, any other acquaintances. He was aware the Medhursts knew he
was in London and employed by a large firm, but they had never been
told the exact details of his whereabouts. However, he found himself
shaking hands with Margaret but too bewildered to say anything.

"What a strange expression in your face, Morgan! It seems to ask any
number of questions, but I can't make out whether it looks pleased or
angry. At least be polite enough to make me welcome. It's nice and
warm in here, so I think I'd better take my jacket off."

"You don't give me time to recover my breath, Margaret. Of course, you
are more than welcome, but I am not good enough for you to visit.
Come, take a chair by the fire."

"You not good enough! It is simply wicked of you to talk like that.
But why are you rubbing your eyes? I believe you think I'm a phantom."

She removed her jacket and also her hat, instinctively throwing them,
as Archibald had done the evening before, across the trunk. Then she
smiled at him again in lovely reassurance that she was real flesh and
blood. She had on a soft woollen dress of that favourite silver-blue
in which she always looked her best. She wore a bunch of
forget-me-nots at her waist, and a little knot of the same flowers at
her throat was fastened with a small, lyre-shaped brooch, set with
pearls. There was just a touch of creamy lace at her wrists and
throat, and what dainty little tendrils of golden hair lay on her
forehead!

"Your chair is very hard," she exclaimed, jumping up almost
immediately. "I think I'll sit on the bed instead."

"You won't find that much better," he said, drawn into good humour by
her briskness, and charmed that so exquisite