Could this automaton be Margret? He leaned on the mantel-shelf,
looking down with a cynical sneer.
"Is that the welcome? Why, there are a thousand greetings for
this time of love and good words you might have chosen. Besides,
I have come back ill and poor,--a beggar perhaps. How do women
receive such,--generous women? Is there no etiquette? no
hand-shaking? nothing more? remembering that I was once--not
indifferent to you."
He laughed. She stood still and grave as before.
"Why, Margret, I have been down near death since that night."
He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and
steady.
"I am glad you did not die. Yes, I can say that. As for
hand-shaking, my ideas may be peculiar as your own."
"She measures her words," he said, as to himself; "her very
eye-light is ruled by decorum; she is a machine, for work. She
has swept her child's heart clean of anger and revenge, even
scorn for the wretch that sold himself for money. There was
nothing else to sweep out, was there?"--bitterly,--"no
friendships, such as weak women nurse and coddle into being,--or
love, that they live in, and die for sometimes, in a silly way?"
"Unmanly!"
"No, not unmanly. Margret, let us be serious and calm. It is no
time to trifle or wear masks. That has passed between us which
leaves no room for sham courtesies."
"There needs none,"--meeting his eye unflinchingly. "I am ready
to meet you and hear your good-bye. Dr. Knowles told me your
marriage was near at hand.
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