CHAPTER XX

Margot accepted the name without protest. She blinked those very black lashes, uncurled herself, and stood up. She continued to look at Charles.

The colour in the old green jumper and skirt of Margaret’s turned her pale blue eyes to turquoise green. Sometimes the black lashes darkened them for an instant. Her skin was amazingly fair and fine. The roses in her cheeks were the prettiest pink roses in the world.

She dimpled at Charles and inquired,

“How did you know my name?”

“I guessed.”

“I don’t see how you could guess.”

“Margaret guessed too.”

“Did she? Margaret, how did you guess?”

“If you want to keep your name a secret,” said Charles, “you mustn’t talk about your cousin Egbert.”

“Or your father’s collection of Lelys and Turners.” Margaret’s tone was a little hard.

Margot turned to Charles.

“You won’t make me go back?”

“Tell me why you don’t want to go back?”

Margot told him. The story was the same story that she had told to Margaret, and that Margaret had repeated to him. While she was speaking, he tried to piece together what she had heard Egbert say, and what he himself had overheard. The pieces fitted. But there were gaps which he meant to fill.

“You won’t send me back-will you? It’s such a big house, and what they said about removing me gave me a most frightful sort of creepy feeling. It really did.”

It gave Charles a creepy feeling too.

“No, we won’t send you back. But I think you ought to let your lawyer know where you are.”

Margot turned quite pale.

“Mr. Hale!”

“Is that his name?”

“Mr. James Hale. His father was a friend of poor Papa’s. He said Papa said all sorts of things to his father.”

“Well, I think you ought to tell him where you are.”

“Oh, I don’t want to.”

“Why on earth not?”

She leaned forward whispering.

“I thought-perhaps he was the person who was going to give the orders about removing me.” She shivered a little. “It would be frightful if I told him and he was.”

Charles agreed-he remembered a certain reference to “the lawyer.” Where everything was so uncertain, it was better to take no step than a false one.

“All right. You stay here, and we don’t tell anyone for a day or two. I’ll try and find out about your Mr. Hale. What relations have you got?”

Margot giggled.

“Everybody asks me that. I haven’t any relations except Egbert.”

“What? None at all?”

“Isn’t it funny not to have any? Papa only had one brother, and he only had Egbert. Papa hated Egbert. And if my relations were going to be like him, I’m frightfully glad they never got born.”

“What about your mother?”

Margot looked important.

“I don’t even know her name-not for certain, you know. I think it was Esther Brandon.”

Margaret swooped into the conversation.

“Don’t say that!”

Margot stared at her.

“I do think so. That’s why I took it. I think I’d better be called Esther Brandon-don’t you? Because if I go on being Margot Standing, those people might find me.”

Margaret turned away. She said,

“Don’t talk nonsense! You can’t call yourself Esther Brandon.”

Then she went over to the bookcase, picked up a book at random, and began to flick the pages over.

“Why can’t I? Why is it nonsense?” Margot spoke to Charles, not to Margaret.

“Well, there’s quite a good reason.”

“But I can’t be Margot Standing.”

“No, you can’t-can you? Let’s think of something else. You can be Miss Smith.”

She gave a little shriek.

“No, I can’t! Not Smith! Not after that horrible Percy Smith!”

“Brown then, or Wilson-unless you know any bad Browns or wicked Wilsons.”

Margot giggled.

“I’ll be Wilson -I’d rather be Wilson than Brown.”

“Brown,” said Charles reprovingly, “is a good old Scottish name.”

“I’ll be Wilson. Shall I be Margot Wilson?”

Charles considered the question, and shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so. Margot is too uncommon. We’ll make up something else out of Margaret. I suppose you are Margaret?”

The other Margaret stood with her back to them, flicking over the pages of her book. She had no idea what the book was. Charles and Margot, sitting close together, talking in low confidential tones, playing a foolish game of names. It was her flat, and she had known Charles Moray for fourteen years; but it was she who had the sense of strangeness and intrusion-she, and not Margot. Margot appeared to be perfectly at home. She heard her giggle and protest, “I won’t be Daisy!”

Charles offered her “Rita,” and got a little shriek of “Oh-no!” in reply.

“Why not? It’s a very nice name.”

“It’s not-it’s frightful.”

“Have Madge then.”

“That’s worse.”

“Madge is a perfectly good name.”

“I won’t have it.”

“What about Margie?”

“Frightful! It’s exactly like margarine.”

“Well, there aren’t any others.”

“There’s Meg,” said Margot. “I wouldn’t mind being Meg.”

Margaret felt as if someone had run a sharp knife into her very suddenly. Charles had called her Meg just once or twice-just once or twice. She did not hear what he said. She turned another page and read: “Oh, Greta’s banks are fresh and fair.” She laughed and called over her shoulder,

“You can be Greta.”

Margot got up and ran to her.

“Did you find it in your book? Let me see! I rather like it. Where is it? On-why is it banks? Is it a river? It says, ‘Greta’s banks are fresh and fair.’ ”

“Very appropriate,” said Charles.

The bell rang. Margaret pushed Sir Walter Scott back into the bookshelf and went to the door. Mr. Archie Millar stood there with a deprecating smile.

“I say, may I come in? Is there a spot of tea going?”

He was surprised at the warmth of his welcome, surprised and a good deal stimulated. Margaret and he had been very good pals for years. He began at this moment to feel a faint dawn of sentiment.

Margaret went back into the sitting-room with a little colour in her cheeks. Archie, behind her, caught sight of Charles, hailed him, and then, beholding Miss Margot Standing, stood agaze. It was Charles who rose to the occasion.

“This is Archie Millar. You’ll get used to him. Archie, make your best bow to Miss Greta Wilson. She’s staying with Margaret.”

The prettiest roses in the world became two shades deeper. Miss Greta Wilson giggled, looked between her black lashes, and found Archie a pleasant young man. In half a minute they were deep in conversation. In three minutes he had discovered that she had only just left school, that she didn’t know anyone in London, and that she loved revues, adored chocolates, and considered Moonlight and You the divinest waltz ever.

Margaret had begun to get tea. She passed to and fro from the minute kitchen. Charles did not offer to help her. He stood by the window looking down absently upon the darkening street. The lime-tree over the way had begun to lose its leaves; those that still remained were as golden as ripe corn. What on earth were they to do with the girl, far too pretty not to be remembered, far too naïve and inexperienced to be set adrift on dangerous waters full of strange cross currents and secret depths? A golden leaf fell wavering to the ground. Archie’s voice broke in:

“Charles! Here, wake up! What about our all goin’ on the bust to-night? A festive beano-what?”

Charles shook his head, and was adjured not to look like an undertaker’s assistant.

“She says she hasn’t seen a thing-you did say you hadn’t didn’t you?”

Miss Greta Wilson nodded.

“Appallin’-isn’t it? I don’t see how we can let it go on for another day. What about dinner for four and the best show we can get into at this sort of last moment?”

Charles shook his head again. The prospect of producing Greta in public was a daunting one-“She’s too pretty by half, and Lord knows whom we should meet.”