"Do you--care for him?"

Peggy wrinkled her brow.

"He's rather a lamb, you know," she said, "and I am fond of him. But I don't quite know how much of it is the real thing and how much is grat.i.tude. I think you know"--she hesitated--"that things have not always been too easy at home--"

"Yes, I do know!" said Philip with sudden pa.s.sion. "Sorry! Go on!"

"--And Tim could take me away from that. He has been very good to me, always, and I have not too many friends. I find friends rather difficult to keep. I fancy Dad may be the reason. You, for instance, have given us up--"

Philip made a sudden movement, but did not speak.

"In fact, you have hardly been inside our house since you left it after your illness."

This time Philip could answer.

"I felt rude and churlish," he said earnestly, "but it seemed the best thing to do. You see, one of the last observations which your esteemed parent made to me was to the effect that he wished to congratulate me upon having got through my illness so inexpensively! After that--"

"I know," said Peggy, smiling, "but I need not apologise. You know what Dad is."

"He furthermore added--" said Philip, flushing.

"Yes, I know what he added," interposed Peggy quickly. "He shouts, rather, when he is making a point. And you, poor thing, being his honoured guest, could not answer back! The fact is, the old gentleman contracted the gravest suspicions of you the first time he found me washing your face! (After all, some one had to do it.) He was always inclined, too, to regard you as a malingerer, though I kept explaining to him that a compound fracture of the tibia could not be simulated.

Still, the long and short of it all is, Philip, that you don't come about the house any more. Tim does, though; apparently Dad regards him as harmless. Tim has been very very good to me, and as I say, I am grateful."

"And you are thinking of marrying him?"

"Frankly, I am thinking of it."

"But you have not said Yes?"

"No. Next question, please?"

"You are sure that Tim cares for you?"

"Well," said Peggy cheerfully, "to judge by the way he went on upon the top step, I should call him a pretty severe case."

"But does he love you?" persisted Philip doggedly. "A woman is always supposed to know that."

"Yes, Philip," a.s.sented Peggy quietly; "she usually knows."

"Where is Tim all this time, by the way?"

"I left him at the ball. He was particularly anxious to have a farewell waltz with a certain girl. You see, he is by way of burning his boats to-night."

"Who is the lady?"

"Her name is Babs Duncombe. He told me all about her. She is one of the only other girls he ever loved. I gather that she is about the pick of the 'also rans.' I told him he could have half an hour to close his account with her, and then he could come along here and call for me.

There's one o'clock striking. Now, Philip, _what_ shall I say?"

Peggy's eyes met Philip's, and they were full of appeal. But Philip asked one more question. He thought it permissible, under the circ.u.mstances.

"I just want to ask this," he said. "Are you--sure there is no one else?"

Peggy shook her head.

"There can be no one else," she said deliberately. "Tim--and you--are the only men I have ever known really well. There can't be any other."

She rose to her feet and stood before Philip--slim, fragrant, and wistful--and laid her hands on his broad shoulders. The hands were trembling.

"Advise me, friend," she said. "I will go by what you say. Be a big brother for a minute. Tell me what to do. Shall I marry him? I--I'm rather lonely, sometimes."

Philip looked up into her face and all hesitation left him. The fight within him ceased. In its place had come the rarest and most wonderful thing in human nature--Love that takes no account of Self. For the moment Philip Meldrum had ceased to be. All he saw was Peggy--Peggy happily married and properly cared for.

Very gently he drew the girl's hands from his shoulders and held them in his own. Then he said:--

"Yes--marry him. And I hope you will be very happy, Peggy dear."

"Thank you, Philip," said Peggy quietly: one had almost said listlessly.

She was very white. She sank down into the chair again, and Philip released her hands.

"And now," he said with great energy, "I'll go out and look for a cab for you. There's a fearful fog outside, and there is no saying when Tim will turn up. In any case you can't stay here till the milkman calls. I will see if I can find some kind of fiery chariot for you. I suppose I can't offer you a whiskey-and-soda?"--pointing to the tray on the table.

"I'll take a little soda-water, please," replied Peggy faintly.

She lay back gazing silently into the fire until her host supplied her needs. Then she spoke again, in her old steady, clear tones:--

"You are a good sort, Philip. You ought to marry some day: you are wasted at present. And when you pick a wife, show her to me first, and I will see you're not imposed on."

"Taxi?" interposed Philip, almost roughly.

"I'm not particular," said Peggy. "You had better be quick, though, because I am going to explore this room and meddle with all your--"

But Philip had gone.

Presently Peggy rose to her feet and began to wander round the room. She arrived at the bookcase.

"_Engineering_--seven bound volumes. That's not very exciting. Rudyard Kipling"--surveying a long row: "that's better. He loves him, I know.

Stevenson, Jacobs, Wells." She took down a green volume. "'The Country of the Blind.' So _that's_ where you were brought up, _mon ami_!"

Peggy restored the book to its place with a quavering little laugh, and turned to the table. Then she stopped dead.

Before her, in the circle of light formed by the rays of the lamp, lay a letter--a bulky letter, ready for post. It was addressed to herself.

CHAPTER x.x.xI