Just then Margaret raised her eyes from her book and saw his face, and
he did not know that she was looking at him. For the first time since
she had met him she understood a little of his real nature, and guessed
the reason why he could write so well. He was a man of heart. She knew
it now, in spite of his faults, his shyness, his ridiculous
over-sensitiveness, his detestable way of blurting out cutting
speeches, his icy criticism of things he did not like. It was a
revelation. She wondered what he would say if he spoke just then.
But at that moment Mrs. Rushmore appeared on the lawn, an imposing and
rather formal figure in black and violet, against the curtain of
honeysuckle that hung down over the verandah.