about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not
prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with
laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it
precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not
concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she
betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however
trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become
important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool
on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove
her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered
to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all
right--she does not love the young man--he has not been
worthy of her."

"Yes, I know; thanks very much."

"I thought I did right to tell you."

"Ever so many thanks."

"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he
proceeded into the dining-room, to eat Elvas plums.

That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house
was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed
against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and
Helen and all their luggage had gone. Tibby, who was not
feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret
sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to
impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The