between Griggs and Miss More. The elderly man rose and packed her
neatly in her plaid, and she thanked him. Miss More looked at her and
smiled vaguely, as even the most intelligent people do sometimes. Then
Griggs got into his own chair again and took up his book.

'Was that right of me?' he asked presently, so low that Miss More did
not hear him speak.

'Yes,' Margaret answered, under her breath, 'but don't let me do it
again, please.'

They both began to read, but after a time Margaret spoke to him again
without turning her eyes.

'He wanted to ask me about that girl who died at the theatre,' she
said, just audibly.

'Oh--yes!'

Griggs seemed so vague that Margaret glanced at him. He was looking at
the inside of his right hand in a meditative way, as if it recalled
something. If he had shown more interest in what she said she would
have told him what she had just learned, about the breaking off of the
engagement, but he was evidently absorbed in thought, while he slowly
rubbed that particular spot on his hand, and looked at it again and
again as if it recalled something.

Margaret did not resent his indifference, for he was much more than
old enough to be her father; he was a man whom all younger writers
looked upon as a veteran, he had always been most kind and courteous