The Argosy — page 245: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

230 Wilful Margaret. well-formed, lithe man, in a black velvet lounging coat, was standing moodily, rolling a cigarette between his long taper fingers. George Wilson was, as all his friends admitted, wonderfully handsome. Soft waves of glorious golden-tinted hair rippled over his shapely head, his rich full lips were heavily fringed with a silky moustache of the same hue, while the large luminous eyes that slumbered beneath the voluptuous fulness of the lids were intensely black. He and Colonel Massingham—his fellow guest at the Hall—were rival suitors for the hand of Margaret Darrell. Each was a worthy match, as regarded wealth and position, for the Squire’s heiress, but George Wilson lacked the steady nobility of character possessed by his older and more staid rival. Fickleness and evanescence were the character- istics which marred his nature. It was impossible to say which Madge favoured the more; but George was the more confident of the two. She used greater freedom and less restraint with him than she did with the Colonel; but then she had known the one aber: girl- hood and the other but for a few weeks. “So you have come at last,” muttered Mr. George ee as Margaret made her appearance. ! “Yes,” she answered demurely’; adding, with provoking meekness, “vou told me to come, and I came.” Casting down her eyes, a - roguish smile flitted round the corners of her dimpled mouth as she toyed gently with a rose-bud that was nestling on her breast. “Who gave you that?” he demanded fiercely, his eyes following her action. “Colonel Massingham “ And you accepted it, after having refused the one I offered you this morning?” The eyes were flashing very angrily now. ‘Don’t be nonsensical, George. You interrupted me before I had finished. It is a new kind grown by Colonel Massingham’s gardener, and my uncle wants to get some for the rosery: there’s a large bunch of them on the drawing-room table.” But she did not say who had singled out that bud for her. George Wilson appeared but half mollified by this explanation. Her cool indifference seemed to exasperate him. “ Madge,” he cried passionately, “‘you have no more feeling than a block of marble, and you trifle with me as though I were cold as yourself. Oh, Margaret, tell me whether you love me! You shall not go until you have answered me.” In his passion he grasped her tightly by the arm. Miss Darrell was half startled, but only for a moment. Her fearless spirit rather admired this violent wooing. ‘How absurd you are, George!” she cried with a low laugh as she withdrew from his grasp. “If you are going to be so rough, I will not stay with you. What do you mean?” “Then give me an answer,” he growled surlily, in his jealous anger: and a mischievous twinkle came into the bright, flashing eyes as she ? CORNICE OOOKS (E(0)