"
"Oh, Grace," cried Maggie. "I didn't mean that you were ridiculous.
I meant that any one being frightened of me was ridiculous. Anyway,
I'm very sorry that I've made you and Paul unhappy. That's all."
She turned and went.
It was the most lovely of April days, soft, primrose-coloured, the
sea-breeze gently tempered by mist-veiled sun. Maggie sat at her
bedroom window overlooking the drive and the blue-grey field that
ran to the woods. She knew that there would be no difficulty about
her escape to the Revival meeting. Paul had arranged that there
should be an evening service at the Church at the same hour, an act
of rather Un-Christian defiance. Maggie sat there, looking down in a
condition of strange bewildering excitement on to the laurel bushes.
It was wonderful to think that in another half-hour she would see
Miss Avies once more, hear those wild hymns again, catch the
stridency of Thurston's voice; all these things spoke of Martin. She
felt as though he were stealing towards her out of the dusk, it was
as though, without any reason, she expected to find him at the
service . . . although she knew that he could not be there.
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