.

.

I too have been very sorry about it.

I have been sorry because I am fond of Rupert, but also--there is another, stronger reason--because I love you, Margaret." As he spoke he got up and stood by her chair.

He saw her take in his last words, at first with a wondering gravity, then with a sudden splendour so that light flooded her face; her arms made a little helpless gesture, and she caught his hand.
He drew her up to him out of her chair; then, with a fierce passionate movement, they held one another and clung together as though in a desperate wild protest against the world.
"You can't touch me now--I've got her," he seemed to fling at the blank face of the old mirror.
It was his act of defiance, but through his exultation he caught the whisper--it might again have been conveyed to him through the shrill shivering notes of the "Valse Triste"-- "Tell her--tell her--now.