I. A. R. Wylie

“ Margaret looked up. She liked this strange and unexpected companion who had been thrust upon her. She was the first friend to whom the mystery and trouble of her life were known fully—the first woman, older than herself, on whom she had been able to depend without reserve. To the girl, brought up amidst servants and people: whose attitude towards her had always been one of half good-natured curiosity, this friendship had been the sheet-anchor in her bad hour: And yet now she looked up into the beautiful face with something of antagonism in her eyes. Ray East stopped short, looking at her. ”

“ The girl laughed out loud.
“Why don't you call me Margaret as you did the other evening when you helped me to keep my head? Monkhouse isn't my name really, you know—heaven knows what it is—I haven't got one—but I'm going to have one—one of my very own. And I'm not crying. Why should I cry? I'm going to be married. That's not a crying matter, is it?”
Ray East made no answer for a minute, but she came and sat by the girl's side, leaning her delicate oval face on her hand in an attitude of grave thoughtfulness. ”

“ I've been trying to persuade myself that it's all been very silly—a boy and girl affair—that neither of us is serious—let's think of it in that way—help me—”
“You can think of it as you like, he burst out. “I shan't help you to humbug yourself.” He seized her hands roughly. “You know as well as I do that for me, at any rate, this is either the beginning or the end of all things. I am not a boy any longer, but even if I were—boys also have their constancies. It's you or no one in this life, Margaret. I'd storm heaven itself for you. ”