You have
to do it every morning, and I somehow can never remember it."
Margaret slipped her arm free; without a word walked to the house.
She was hurt. This girl had the artistic temperament, and the artistic
temperament feels things most dreadfully. It even feels being kept
waiting for its meals.
II.
George followed the pained young woman into the house; set down in the
hall the books he carried; left the house again; out through the gate,
and so, whistling gaily along roads and lanes, came to the skirts of
an outlying copse. By disused paths he twisted this way and that to
approach, at length, a hut that once was cottage, whose dilapidated
air advertised long neglect.
It was a week after Mary's arrival at Herons' Holt that, quite by
chance, George had stumbled upon this hut. He had taken his books into
the copse, had somehow lost his way in getting out, and through thick
undergrowth had plumped suddenly upon the building. Curiosity had
taken him within, shown him an outer and an inner room, and, in the
second, a sight that had given him laughter; for he discovered there
sundry empty bottles labelled "Old Tom," a glass, an envelope
addressed to Mrs. Major. It was clear that in this deserted place--
somehow chanced upon--the masterly woman had been wont, safe from
disturbance, to meet the rascal who, taken to Herons' Holt on that
famous night, had so villainously laid her by the heels.
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