As Margaret thought of it it seemed incredible--this tissue of
fabrications that enmeshed them; but even as she wondered she knew that
the very years that marked its gradual growth made now its strength.
And in a little while would come the end--a very little while, the
doctor said.
Margaret tightened her lips and echoed her sister's words: "We mustn't
give up--we mustn't!"
Two days later the doctor called. He was a bit out of the old life.
His home, too, had been--and was now, for that matter--on the avenue. He
lived with his aunt, whose heir he was, and he was the only one outside
of the Whitmore family that knew the house of illusions in which Mrs.
Whitmore lived.
His visits to the little Harlem flat had long ceased to have more than a
semblance of being professional, and it was an open secret that he
wished to make Margaret his wife. Margaret said no, though with a
heightened color and a quickened breath--which told at least herself how
easily the "no" might have been a "yes."
Dr. Littlejohn was young and poor, and he had only his profession, for
all he was heir to one of the richest women on the avenue; and Margaret
refused to burden him with what she knew it would mean to marry her. In
spite of argument, therefore, and a pair of earnest brown eyes that
pleaded even more powerfully, she held to her convictions and continued
to say no.
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