"Yours or Timothy's?"

"Mine. Tim keeps his in the other room across the pa.s.sage. We usually feed here and sit there."

Peggy gave a little cry.

"My dear Philip, when did you get those awful vases?"

Philip explained, with more apologies.

"And what is that queer thing there?"

"That is a model of the Meldrum Carburettor."

Peggy nodded her head.

"I remember," she said. "I have met it before. I suppose you say your prayers to it. What is in that cracker jar?"

"Tobacco."

"I thought so. As for these old pipes, you ought either to send them away to be cleaned and revarnished, or else get a new set altogether.

No, I don't think much of your taste in mantelpiece ornaments, Philip.

Now if _I_ were an eligible young bachelor, I should sweep all these hideosities away and subst.i.tute a row of photographs of fair ladies."

"I'm afraid I haven't got any," said Philip.

Peggy regarded him coldly.

"Indeed!" she observed. "I have an idea that I once presented you with my portrait."

"Here it is," said Philip.

He pointed to the open bureau. There stood Peggy's photograph, in a large round silver frame.

"H'm!" said the original, with her head on one side. "The darkest corner of an old bureau! I thought as much. I suppose this empty s.p.a.ce in the middle of the mantelpiece is reserved?"

"Reserved--what for?" enquired the mystified Philip.

Peggy pointed an accusing finger.

"Whose photograph," she enquired, "does a man eventually plant in the middle of his mantelpiece? Hasn't she come along yet, Theophilus? You must hustle, you know. You are getting on. You must not be left on the shelf!"

She put her head upon one side in the manner which Philip loved, and smiled provocatively up at her sere and yellow devotee.

Then, without a moment's warning, her mood changed.

"Philip, my friend," she said caressingly, "forgive me. You are an angel of patience. I did not come here to-night to show you my new frock, or torment you."

"I had gathered that," replied Philip gravely. "Won't you sit down?"

He drew up an armchair to the fire, and the girl sank into it luxuriously, extending her flimsily shod feet to the blaze. Philip stood with an elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down upon his love. All his life he never forgot the picture that Peggy presented at that moment--enthroned in his old armchair in the dimly lit, smoke-laden room, in her shimmering ball-dress, the firelight tingeing her bare arms and shoulders, and her brown eyes and honey-coloured hair glinting in its rays.

"Can I help you about anything?" he asked bluntly.

"Yes, Philip, you can. I want to tell you something. I--I have just had a proposal!"

"Where? When?" asked Philip involuntarily.

"At the Freeborns' dance, on the top of a flight of stairs, about three quarters of an hour ago," replied Peggy with great precision.

"Not in the conservatory?"

"Conservatory? No. Why?"

"I had a kind of notion," said Philip lamely, "that these events always occurred in a conservatory. You know--Chinese lanterns--distant music--exotic atmosphere--and so on! Was it a good proposal?"

"Fair to middling, so far as my experience goes."

"Did he--carry you off your feet?"

"No," said the girl soberly, "he didn't. I maintained my equilibrium: it's a way I have. But you mustn't think I didn't enjoy it. It was most thrilling."

"Quite good, in fact, for a first attempt?"

"First attempt?" Peggy's eyebrows went up. "How do you know it was a first attempt? Have you guessed who it was?"

Philip nodded.

"Perhaps he told you?"

"No. I have only just guessed."

"How upsetting of you. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It is. He was dining here to-night, obviously on the war-path, and bound for the Freeborns' dance. But I never guessed you were the objective: I didn't know you were in town, for one thing. So you came here to tell me your news?"

"Yes," said Peggy. "Not altogether," she added slowly. "I--I want to consult you, Philip. It's a big thing for a girl to have to decide on a plunge like this--the biggest thing she ever does. It rather--rather frightens her at times. If she has no mother, and no brothers or sisters, and--and a dad like my dad, it becomes a bigger thing than ever. Her best course, then, is to pick out the whitest man she knows, and ask him to advise her. That is why I am here."

There was a long silence. Then Philip said:--

"I am very proud that you should have come to me. But--but I doubt if I am the right person. Why not ask a woman to advise you?"

"Because," replied Peggy with great vigour, "women are such born matchmakers. If you go to a woman and confide to her that you are wobbling on the brink of matrimony, she won't advise you: she will simply step behind you and push you in! That is why I can't consult Jean Leslie,--Jean Falconer, I mean,--although she is my best friend. She is far too romantic to say or do anything practical. No, I must have a man, Philip; and I have picked you. You are the best sort I know; you have seen a good deal of life; and you are absolutely unbiased. You know me, and you know Tim. Now, shall I marry him?"

Philip sat down rather heavily upon the fireguard, and pondered.

"May I ask you two or three obvious and old-fashioned questions?" he said presently.

Peggy nodded.