“I got them for you.”
The parlourmaid appeared below dealing with the maid and the luggage cab.
“Tell me all about America,” said Margaret. “I feel as though you'd been away six year's.”
We went arm in arm into our little sitting-room, and I took off the fur's for her and sat down upon the chintz-covered sofa by the fire. She had ordered tea, and came and sat by me. I don't know what I had expected, but of all things I had certainly not expected this sudden abolition of our distances.
“I want to know all about America,” she repeated, with her eyes scrutinising me. “Why did you come back?”
I repeated the substance of my letters rather lamely, and she sat listening.
“But why did you turn back—without going to Denver?”
“I wanted to come back. I was restless.”
“Restlessness,” she said, and thought. “You were restless in Venice. You said it was restlessness took you to America.”
Again she studied me. She turned a little awkwardly to her tea things, and poured needless water from the silver kettle into the teapot. Then she sat still for some moments looking at the equipage with expressionless eyes. I saw her hand upon the edge of the table tremble slightly. I watched her closely. A vague uneasiness possessed me. What might she not know or guess?
She spoke at last with an effort. “I wish you were in Parliament again,” she said. “Life doesn't give you events enough.”