CHAPTERXXIX

She was crying in earnest now.

"Supposing—just supposing—" began Philip.

"Oh, stop your supposing!" the girl blazed out passionately. "Don't you see I can't bear it? I want him! I'm frightened of everything, and I want Bob! And it's too late!"

"Stay exactly where you are for about five minutes," commanded Philip. And he disappeared in the darkness.

A few minutes later Bath-Steward Brand was incurring the risk of ignominious expulsion from the service of the merchant marine by trespassing upon a portion of the deck strictly reserved for passengers.

Philip went to bed.

Philip, leaning over the forward rail of the boatdeck and surveying the silhouette of New York, rising like a row of irregular teeth upon the distant horizon, talked to himself in order to keep his spirits up.

"Theophilus, my lad,"—he liked to call himself by that name, because Peggy had sometimes used it,—"so far, your scheme of fresh friends and pastures new has turned out a fizzle. You took this trip in order to see new faces and make new friends, and generally put the past behind you. The net result is that you have not made a single new acquaintance. Instead, you have devoted your entire energies to interfering in the affairs of a second-class lady passenger and a bath-steward, neither of whom can be described under any circumstances as a new friend. You must make a real effort when you land."

But Fate was against him. He descended to the saloon, and having there satisfied an Immigration official, sitting behind a pile of papers, that he was neither a pauper, a lunatic, nor an anarchist, could read and write, and was not suffering from any disease of the eyeball, he purchased one of the newspapers which the pilot had brought on board in the early morning, and retired to a sunny corner to occupy himself, after a week's abstention, in getting abreast of the news of the day. He unfolded the crackling sheet.

It was his first introduction to that stupendous organ of private opinion, the American newspaper.... When he had recovered his breath, and the shouting scarelines had focussed themselves into some sort of proportion, he worked methodically through the entire journal, discovering ultimately, to his relief, that nothing very dreadful had happened after all. He had almost finished, when his eye fell upon a small paragraph at the foot of acolumn, with its headlines set in comparatively modest type.

CUPID GETS BUSY IN THE STUDIO

WELL-KNOWN BRITISH PAINTERS WED

LOVE COMES LATE IN LIFE

TO MONTAGU FALCONER

ASSOCIATE OF BRITISH ACADEMY

AND JEAN LESLIE

FAMOUS WOMAN MINIATURIST

We cull the following from the London "Times":Falconer-Leslie. At St. Peter's, Eaton Square, on the 4th inst., Montagu Falconer, A.R.A., to Jean Leslie, only daughter of the late General Sir Ian Leslie, V.C., of Inverdurie, Invernesshire.

We cull the following from the London "Times":

Falconer-Leslie. At St. Peter's, Eaton Square, on the 4th inst., Montagu Falconer, A.R.A., to Jean Leslie, only daughter of the late General Sir Ian Leslie, V.C., of Inverdurie, Invernesshire.

A quarter of a column followed, expatiating upon the fact that the wedding took place very quietly at ten o'clock in the morning, and that reporters had met with a discouraging reception from the bridegroom. Then came a list of Montagu's best-known pictures. But Philip did not read it. He threw the paper down on deck, and started to his feet.

The Bosphorus had come to a standstill at the opening of her berth, waiting for the tugs to turn her in. Protruding from the next opening was the forepart of a monster liner, from whose four funnels smoke was spouting.

Philip enquired of a passing quartermaster:—

"What ship is that, please?"

"The Caspian, sir. Our record-breaker!" said the man, with proper pride. "She sails for Liverpool at noon."

Half an hour later Philip found himself and his belongings dumped upon the Continent of America. A minion of the rapacious but efficient ring of buccaneers which controls the entire transport system of the United States confronted him.

"Where shall I express your baggage?" he enquired.

"You can put it on board the Caspian," replied Philip.

"Gee!" remarked the expressman admiringly.

"Some hustler, ain't you?"

"I am," said Philip—"this trip! Get busy!"

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THEOPHILUS

"Prettyhot stuff this port of yours, old son—what?"

"Take some more," grunted Philip.

"Thank you. Thatwasthe situation I was endeavouring to lead up to," said Timothy, and helped himself.

"It's a blessing to see your honest but homely features once again," he continued, lifting his glass, "especially when you signalise your return by replenishing the wine-cellar. Chin-chin, old thing!"

Philip, sitting on one chair with his feet on another and smoking a briar pipe, grunted again. Timothy rose, and lit a cigarette with a live coal from the fire. (Matches were never a conspicuous feature of a bachelor establishment, however well regulated.) As he did so, his eye was caught by a pair of tall and hideous vases,—of the kind which is usually given away at coöperative stores to customers who have been rash enough to accumulate a certain number of coupons,—standing one at each end of the mantelpiece.

"Oh, my dear old Theophilus," moaned the æsthetic Timothy, "do you mean to say you have resurrected the Bulgarian Atrocities?"

The ornaments in question had been a Christmaspresent from Mrs. Grice. ("I bought 'em just before closing-time at a Sale of Work what my married sister in the Wandsworth Road was interested in, sir," she had explained. "A Sale of Work in aid of the Bulgarian Atrocities, it was. I said to Grice at the time that they would brighten up your room something wonderful. There they are, sir, with our respectful Christmas wishes—one from Grice and one from me. Oh, thank you sir!") Hence their name.

"Yes," said Philip; "Mrs. Grice got them out of the cupboard as soon as I returned, and they were duly washed and put up this morning. I was hoping she had forgotten about them; but they will have to stay there now. We mustn't offend the old lady. You are a tremendous swell to-night, Tim. Going out?"

"Yes," said Tim importantly, "I am." He produced a pair of white gloves and began to try them on, surveying Philip's aged dinner-jacket and black tie with tolerant indulgence.

"I must now pull myself together," he announced, turning to survey an appallingly tight white waistcoat with immense satisfaction in the glass over the mantelpiece, "and pass along quietly."

"You needn't go yet," said Philip, filling another pipe.

"Despite your frenzied entreaties, old son," replied Timothy, "I simply must. There is going to be dirty work at the crossroads to-night," he added mysteriously.

Philip, who gathered that a confidence of somekind was on the way, waited. It was good to see Timothy again. His company was always exhilarating, and at the present juncture it was extra welcome. For Philip found himself at an unexpectedly loose end. He had landed from the Caspian a week before, determined this time to put his whole fate to the touch—only to find that his Lady was not in London. Friends in Hampshire—he knew neither their name nor address, and was much too self-conscious to enquire at Tite Street—had snatched her away directly after her father's wedding, and the date of her return was uncertain. Therefore he leaned at this moment upon Timothy.

Presently Tim enquired:—

"I say, Phil, ever been in love, old friend?"

This was a familiar gambit, and Philip gave his usual reply.

"Occasionally."

"Anything doing at present? Anything fresh?"

"Nothing to write home about, thanks."

Timothy surveyed his friend critically.

"I wonder," he said musingly, "if Romance could ever really find a lurking-place in that gearless, valveless little heart!"

"Afraid not," said Philip. "Romance gives old fossils like me the go-by."

"Don't talk rot of that kind, Phil," replied the boy quickly. "Any woman would be proud to marry you. Fool if she wasn't!" he added, with real sincerity.

Philip responded by waving his glass in his friend's direction.

"Mr. Rendle, your health and sentiment!" heremarked gravely. He drank; laid down the glass; and sat up.

"And now, my son Timothy," he remarked briskly, "get it off your chest! Own up! Who is she? When do the banns go up—eh?"

"Get what off my chest?" enquired Tim, with a great appearance of surprise.

"This great secret. Cough it up! Who is the lady?"

One of Philip's greatest virtues in the eyes of Timothy was that he never, under any circumstances, ended that particular question with "this time." But he was genuinely surprised at Philip's penetration.

"Great Scott! It must be written all over me if you can spot it, old Bartimæus!" he said, not altogether displeased. "Yes, you are right. It has happened at last."

"What?"

"It!I'm in love."

"It comes to us all, sooner or later," remarked Philip tactfully.

"And I am going," announced Tim with great firmness, "to bring it off this very night."

Philip glanced at the clock.

"Quarter to ten," he said. "A bit late to begin a job of that magnitude to-night, isn't it? Are you going to apply personally, or by letter?"

"What's that?" enquired Timothy, emerging from a rapturous reverie.

Philip repeated the question.

"Letter?" exclaimed Tim with infinite scorn—"a letter? Write? Write a letter? My saintedaunt,write?" He gazed indignantly upon the automaton before him that called itself a man. "My dear old relic of the Stone Age—"

"In the Stone Age," observed the relic, "they couldn't write."

Timothy made reference to the Stone Age which was neither seemly nor relevant, and continued:—

"Do you expect me to sit down and write—write toher—upon such a subject as that? Write—with a three-and-nine-penny fountain pen, on Silurian notepaper at a shilling a packet? It's notdone, dear old soul; it's simply notdone!"

Timothy, carefully hitching up the knees of his faultlessly creased trousers, lowered himself on to the sofa, the picture of reproachful scorn.

"If it takes you that way," replied the unruffled Philip, "why not use cream-laid vellum and a gold nib?"

Timothy merely made an alarming noise at the back of his neck.

"Or a typewriter, with the loud pedal down and all the stops out?" pursued the facetious Philip.

"Phil," announced Timothy, with a pathetic attempt to look extremely stern and dignified, "let me tell you that I am in no mood for this sort of thing. Dry up, man; dry up! Do you think I could get all I have to say upon this occasion within the limits of an ordinary letter?"

"Under the present postal regulations," explained Philip, "you can send four ounces for a penny. In fact, if you leave the ends open—"

He caught sight of Tim's tragic face, and concluded his entertainment.

"Sorry, old chap!" he remarked, suddenly contrite. "I don't know why one should try to pull a man's leg on these occasions. God knows, the business is serious enough."

"Thanks," said Timothy gratefully. "To tell you the truth, I am feeling pretty bad about it. You don't know what it is to be hard hit by a woman, Phil."

"No. I should have remembered that," said Philip apologetically.

"I know you consider me a young blighter who is always in love with some little piece of goods or other," continued the chastened Timothy; "but this time it is serious. This is the end of all things. Never before have I got sufficiently fond of a girl to ask her to marry me; but I am going to do it to-night."

"I wish you luck," said Philip with feeling.

"Thanks, old friend," responded the boy gratefully. "I'm in a terrible twitter."

"Whynotwrite?" reiterated the methodically minded Philip. "A letter has its points, you know. I understand that on these occasions it is a little difficult to keep one's head. Metaphors get mixed; telling points are omitted; and the peroration halts, or misses fire."

The feverish Timothy eyed his friend with amazed compassion.

"I should like to remind you," he observed, "that we are discussing love-letters—not election addresses!"

"All right," said Philip pacifically; "have it your own way. All I wanted to bring home to youwas the fact that once you get your sentiments safely down on paper, the lady is bound to get the hang of them in the long run. On the other hand, if you stake everything on a single verbal encounter, you may find yourself in the tumbril. The G.P.O. may be unromantic, but it is safe."

But Timothy was not listening. He had put on his greatcoat and was now adjusting a white silk muffler.

"I'm going," he announced in trumpet tones, "to let her have it hot and strong. I'm going to carry her off her feet. I'm going—The devil of it all is," he added disconsolately, "that one never knows how to begin—when to chip in, in fact. You know! One can't very well get to work while shaking hands; there has to be a little preliminary chit-chat of some kind. Then, the conversation goes and settles down to some rotten, irrelevant topic; and before you can work it round to suit your plans the next dance strikes up, or some criminal comes and interrupts you, or else it's time to go home. And there you are, outside on the mat once more, kicking yourself to death!"

Timothy cocked his silk hat upon his sleek head with great precision, and concluded:—

"But I am going to do it to-night, or perish. Give me five minutes in the Freeborns' conservatory between waltzes, and she has simply got to have it! Good-night!"

He bounced out of the room, and was gone.

"I wonder who the charmer is this time," mused Philip, getting up and knocking out his pipe. "I might have asked him."

He rang the bell, and after a moment Mrs. Grice glided respectfully into the room, after the manner of a cardboard figure in a toy theatre. She was followed by her husband, struggling with his coat.

"'Ave you rang the bell, sir?" queried Mrs. Grice.

"Yes," said Philip. "Will you clear away, please. I want that table to-night—to write at."

During the turmoil which now ensued, Philip sat on the padded leather fire-guard and lit another pipe. Presently he said:—

"Mrs. Grice!"

Mrs. Grice, engaged in a bout of what looked like a game of catch-as-catch-can with Mr. Grice and the tablecloth, immediately extricated herself from her damask winding-sheet and came respectfully to attention.

"Sir?"

"Mrs. Grice, when you received your husband's proposal of marriage, was it by letter or word of mouth?"

Mrs. Grice, needless to say, was quite overwhelmed with maidenly confusion. Coming from Timothy, such a question as this would have surprised her not at all; for Timothy was one of those fortunate persons who may say what they like to any one. But as uttered by her grave and reserved patron Mr. Meldrum, it sounded most alarming. She replied, breathlessly:—

"Was you referring to Mr. Grice or to my first 'usband, sir?"

"'Ow should Mr. Meldrum," enquired a huskyvoice from the sideboard, "know you ever 'ad a fust 'usband?"

Mrs. Grice, having now recovered her mental poise, countered with a lightning thrust.

"Knowing you as he does, Grice," she retorted, "is it likely Mr. Meldrum would dream of regardin' you as my first choice?"

Philip broke in pacifically:—

"Let us say your first husband, Mrs. Grice."

"Well, sir," began Mrs. Grice readily, "'e did it by word of mouth. Leastways, not precisely. Partly by deputy, if you take my meaning, sir."

Philip made an apologetic gesture.

"Not absolutely," he said.

"Well, sir," continued Mrs. Grice, beginning to enjoy herself, "we'd bin walkin' out for some time, and it didn't look like ever comin' to anything. So my brother George, 'e said it was time the matter was took up proper. George was a brewer's drayman. There was eleven of us altogether!—"

"Notquiteso much of it!" advised Mr. Grice, who had left the sideboard to join the symposium. "Get back to your first."

Needless to say, Mrs. Grice took not the slightest notice.

"Well, sir, George told me to tell 'Enery—that bein' his name; Grice's, as you know, bein' Albert—"

"Keep to the point, do!" groaned Mr. Grice.

"—George told me to tell 'Enery—'Enery 'Orbling his full name was—that if him and me wasn't married inside of four weeks, George would come along and knock his 'ead off. I told 'Enerywhat George had said, sir," continued the old lady in a tone of tender reminiscence, "and I became Mrs. 'Orbling in three weeks and six days exactly. That's what I meant when I said that my courting was done by deputy. 'Orbling died fourteen years ago, in Charing Cross Hospital. His kidneys are still—"

"I see," said Philip hurriedly. "Grice, when you asked the future Mrs. Grice to become your wife, how didyouset about it?"

"Was you referrin', sir," enquired Mr. Grice, with a respectful wheeze, "to this Mrs. Grice or to my first wife?"

"Let us say this Mrs. Grice," said Philip, beginning to feel a little dizzy.

Mr. Grice, who had been assisting his second choice to load glasses and spoons on to a tray, once more desisted from his labours in order not to confuse his brain, and began, fixing his wavering eye upon a point on the wall just above Philip's head:—

"I met 'er at a birthday party at my late first's married sister's, sir. I gave her a motter out of a cracker, which seemed to me to sum up what I wanted to say in very convenient fashion, sir. It said:—

"'If you love me as I love you,Then let's begin to bill and coo,'

sir. Very 'andy and compact, I thought it."

"And what did you say to that, Mrs. Grice?" asked Philip.

"I told him to give over being a silly old man,sir," replied Mrs. Grice, with extreme gratification.

"And did he?"

"No, sir," replied the simpering Mrs. Grice. "'Ewould'ave me! He got his way." She smiled roguishly at her all-conquering spouse, who gave her a look of stern reproof. "Will there be anything further, sir?"

"No thank you," said Philip. "Good-night!"

His aged retainers having withdrawn, Philip sat on, staring into the fire.

"We all have our own ways of setting about things," he said aloud. Philip had a bad habit of talking to himself, especially at moments of mental concentration. When scolded by Peggy, he had pleaded that it helped him to think. "Tim's is a personal interview in the conservatory. Grice's is a motto out of a cracker. Mrs. Grice's is a big brother. Mine—"

He rose, and crossed the room to a locked bureau. From this he extracted an old leather writing-case, which had once belonged to his father. This he laid open upon the table, beside a green-shaded reading-lamp. After that he turned out all the other lights and made up the fire to a cheerful blaze. Finally, from the pocket of the writing-case he extracted a fat envelope. It was addressed, but not fastened. Philip drew up his chair to the table and pulled out the contents. These comprised many sheets, the last of which was not finished.

He read the letter right through, slowly and seriously. Occasionally he made an erasure or a correction, but not often. Then, when he reachedthe unfinished page, he charged his pen, squared his elbows, uttered a heavy sigh, and addressed himself to the labours of composition.

More than once he tore a page up and began again, but finally all was finished.

He leaned back and read the whole epistle right through again. Then he folded its many sheets in their right order and put them into the envelope.

"I think the occasion calls for sealing-wax," he said.

He found an old stump in the writing-case, and sealed up the envelope, impressing it with his father's seal. Presently the deed was done. The Epistle of Theophilus lay on the table before its author, signed, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Philip looked at the clock, and whistled. It was a quarter past twelve.

He drew aside the curtains and inspected the night. The plate-glass window had become mysteriously opaque; so he raised the sash—to lower it again with all speed, coughing. A thick brown fog, of the brand affectionately known among its habitual inhalers as "London particular," was lying in a sulphurous pall over the choking city.

"All the same, my lad," decided Philip, "you had better trot out and post it. It will be delivered at Tite Street to-morrow morning, and perhaps some Christian person there will forward it. Perhaps Jean Leslie will. Wish I could post myself, too," he added wistfully. "Hello, what's that?"

From the little lobby outside came the sharp rat-tat of a knocker—low, clear, and rhythmical. To judge by the sound, the outer door was standingopen, and some person unknown was indulging in a playful little tattoo.

"Officers' wives get pudding and pies,Soldiers' wives get skill-y!"

it said.

Philip's heart almost broke from its moorings. Hastily he picked up the shaded lamp from the table and turned its light to illuminate the doorway.

Next moment there came a quick and familiar step outside. The door of the room opened gently; and there appeared, radiant and dazzling against the blackness behind, a Vision.

"Peggy!"

"Yes—just me!" replied the Vision demurely.

THE SILENT KNIGHT

Peggywalked to the fire and warmed her hands delicately. She was wrapped in a dark-blue velvet opera-cloak trimmed with fur. One corner had fallen back, showing the pink silk lining. Presently she slipped this garment off, and throwing it across a chair sat down upon the padded top of the fireguard with a contented sigh and smiled seraphically upon her host. The clock struck half-past twelve.

"Peggy," enquired the respectable Philip severely, "what on earth are you doing here?"

"I came to see you, Theophilus," replied Peggy. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Such conduct," observed Philip resolutely, "is most reprehensible."

"Yes, isn't it? But I was at a dance close by, and I thought you would like to see my new frock. Do you think it is pretty?"

Philip merely gaped. He was all at sea. Peggy regarded him covertly for a moment, and spoke again.

"When a lady," she remarked reproachfully, "takes the trouble to climb up four flights of stairs to show a gentleman her new frock, it is usual for the gentleman to say something appreciative."

"I think it is beautiful," said Philip, feasting his eyes upon her.

Peggy, noticing this, decided to divert his attention from the wearer to the garment.

"And yet," she said, "if you were asked to describe it to-morrow, you would not be able to remember a single thing about it."

"I should remember every detail," replied Philip, "but I should not be able to describe it. There's a difference, you know."

"Try—now," suggested Peggy.

Philip meekly fell in with her mood. He knew enough of the character of the girl before him to be quite certain that she had not visited his flat at midnight in order to show him her new frock. She wanted him for something: perhaps she was in trouble. Well, she would tell him in due course. For the moment, extenuating irrelevancies were to be the order of the day.

"Miss Peggy Falconer," he began conscientiously, "looked charming in a white silk—"

"Satin," corrected the charming one.

"—satin creation, which was partly obscured from view by a sort of kilt—"

"A tunic."

"—a tunic, of pink gauze."

"Of rose-colouredchiffon."

"Thank you. Miss Falconer wore the neatest little white satin shoes, tied up with ribbon, and white silk—"

"They are not usually mentioned."

"Sorry! Miss Falconer wore long white gloves—"

"They are taken for granted."

"Well, anyhow," persisted the harassed Philip, "round her hair Miss Falconer wore a band of some stuff or other—"

"Oftulle."

"—of tulle, which very cleverly matched the colour of her ki—tunic. Over her shoulders she wore a filmy scarf, of the same stu—material. Her waistband, which she wore rather high up, contained a small bunch of carnations. Finally her appearance caused considerable gratification to one of her oldest friends, who did not know that she was in town."

"I only got back this afternoon," said Peggy, who by this time had risen to her feet and was inspecting Philip'slares et penates. "By the way, your front door was ajar, Philip. Your last visitor must have left it open. Very careless! You might have been robbed."

"I expect it was Friend Grice."

Peggy babbled on. She was speaking vivaciously, and rather more rapidly than was her wont; another woman would have said that she was talking to exclude other topics.

"It is more than a year since I was in these rooms, Philip. They are as snug as ever, but horribly untidy. Why do you always keep books on the floor? And your mantelpiece—tragic!" She ran her finger along the edge, and held it up reproachfully. "Look! Filthy!" The tip of her glove was black. "I shall have to take my gloves off, I see, to keep them clean."

"I apologise. You have dropped in just before our annual dust-up. Most unfortunate!"

"Are these your household gods?" continued Peggy, coming to a halt before the mantelpiece.

"Yes."

"Yours or Timothy's?"

"Mine. Tim keeps his in the other room across the passage. 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 ifIwere an eligible young bachelor, I should sweep all these hideosities away and substitute 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! Ithought as much. I suppose this empty space 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.

"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 gratitude. I think you know"—she hesitated—"that things have not always been too easy at home—"

"Yes, I do know!" said Philip with sudden passion. "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 factis, 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," assented 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 pickof 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,whatshall 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 circumstances.

"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'snot 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.' Sothat'swhere 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.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

"This Week's Society Problem," mused Peggy. "A, an unsophisticated young spinster, finding herself alone in the residence of B, an eligible bachelor acquaintance, notices upon B's dining-room table a letter in B's handwriting, addressed to herself and stamped for post.Problem:What should A do?Answer adjudged correct:Leave the letter where it is and wait until the postman delivers it.Answer adjudged incorrect:Open the letter and read it."

A minute later the seal was broken and Peggy was composedly extracting the folded sheets.

"I'm afraid I never did have the instincts of a real lady," she said. "But perhaps the postman would never have delivered this letter. I will salve my conscience by picking off the stamp and saving him a penny."

She did so. Then, sitting down to the table and drawing the lamp a little nearer, she smoothed out the crackling pages and began to read.

This is the letter of a man who suffers from an impediment in his speech. I have been able to talk to you on many subjects, but never on this—the thing that matters most in all the world.

Peggy drew her chair a little closer.

I might have told you all about it long ago, the letter continued, for I have been ready to do so ever since you gatheredme up from under the car at the foot of Wickmore Hill. But I never did. Twice I have nearly done it, and twice I have drawn back—the first time because it seemed too soon, the second because it seemed no use. If details would interest you, the first time was in the early days of my convalescence at Tite Street. I came hobbling into your drawing-room one afternoon—and you had been crying. I suppose your father had been inconsiderate again. Not that you showed it, but I happened to sit down in the same chair as your handkerchief, which was soaking. If necessary, I can produce the handkerchief as evidence.

Peggy gave a half-hysterical little sob.

The second time was on Chelsea Embankment. I don't suppose you remember.

Then followed Philip's version of what took place on Chelsea Embankment. Peggy smiled indulgently. She could afford to smile now.

But now that the reason which kept you from marrying any one—and I think it was fine of you—has been removed, I want to reopen the subject in earnest. First of all, let me talk about the beginning of things....

Peggy looked up.

"I wonder why men always want to go back to the Year One when they make love," she mused. "Tim did it, too. I suppose it is a man's idea of showing how firmly founded his affection is. 'Established eighteen-seventy-six'—that sort of thing!"

Then she returned to her letter.

It was a lengthy epistle, this Epistle of Theophilus. Primarily it was a love-letter; but when you have never written a love-letter before andnever intend to write another, a good deal of secondary matter is apt to creep in. This letter contained the whole of Philip's simple philosophy of life; his confession of faith; the thoughts that a deeply reserved and extremely sensitive man sets down just once, and for one eye only. He felt that Peggy was entitled to a full and complete inventory of his thoughts about her; so he set them all down, page by page, line by line; not knowing that a woman as often as not chooses a man as she chooses a house, not because of the stability of the foundations or the purity of the water-supply, but because a quaint, old-fashioned sundial in the garden has caught her fancy, or some oddly shaped room in an out-of-the-way turret strikes her as the one and only site for a little private and particular retreat of her own. But Peggy read on.

The letter covered wide ground. It went back to their first wonderful meeting, and recalled childish conversations which Peggy thought she had forgotten. It told of knightly dreams, and of the Lady whom the Knight was one day to meet and marry—not realising that he had met her already. After that came more recent history—the second meeting, and the rapturous convalescence at Tite Street. The black months that followed the tragedy on Chelsea Embankment were sketched very lightly. Finally came the story of the momentous voyage upon the Bosphorus, and the race home.

The letter closed with a passage which need not be set down here. This is in the main a frivolousnarrative; and there are certain inner rooms in the human heart, from the threshold of which self-respecting frivolity draws back with decent reverence.

The clock struck two. Simultaneously the outer door of the flat opened with the rattle of a latchkey; and next moment Timothy burst into the room. Peggy was curled up in the big armchair before the fire, apparently half asleep.

"That you, Timmy?" she enquired.

"Yes—dearest!" replied Timothy.

Inflated with the enormous pride of possession, he leaned over the back of the chair and gazed fondly down upon his prospective bride.

"Don't bother me just now," said Peggy. "I'm rather sleepy."

"Darling!" responded the infatuated Timothy.

"Stop blowing on the top of my hand, and help yourself to a cigarette, there's a good child," suggested the darling soothingly.

Timothy obeyed, a trifle dashed.

"I don't think, little girl," he remarked, lighting the cigarette, "that that isquitethe way in which a man expects to be greeted by hisfiancée."

"His what?" asked Peggy.

"His—well, dash it all, Peggy," exclaimed Timothy impatiently,—he was naturally somewhat tightly strung up to-night,—"don't be a little pig. Here I come hareing along from the dance in search of you, as full of beans as—as—as a—"

"Beanpod?" suggested Peggy helpfully.

"No! Yes! All right! Beanpod, if you like!" cried the sorely tried youth. "But give a fellow a chance. As I say, here I come, red-hot on your track, just overflowing with—well, I can't describe it—and you greet me as if I were a Rural Dean."

"I should never dream of addressing a Rural Dean as 'Timmy,' Timmy," Peggy replied.

"Well, you know what I mean," insisted Timothy, not in the least appeased by this soft answer. "Just think. We have both been passing through the greatest crisis of our lives—the most thrilling moment of our joint existence—"

"Have we?" asked Peggy in simple wonder. "I didn't know."

Her incensed swain, grappling heroically with his feelings, began to stride about the room.

"Peggy," he said in a stern voice, "let us understand one another clearly."

For reply, the unfeeling Miss Falconer rose to her feet and struck an attitude.

"'Tush!' cried the Marquis, pacing the floor of the bijou boudoir liked a caged lion," she recited.

Timothy uttered an impatient ejaculation, and dropped upon the sofa.

"Then, with a superb gesture of contempt, he turned upon his heel and flung himself into the depths of an abysmal divan," continued Peggy. "Careful, Timmy! I heard the sofa crack."

"I suppose you know, Peggy," announced Timothy in a very ill-used voice, "that you are breaking my heart? Also destroying my faith inwomen? Mere details, of course," he added, in what was meant to be a tone of world-weary cynicism; "but they may interest you!"

He rose, and leaning gloomily against the mantelpiece, glowered his disapprobation of his beloved's ill-timed levity.

Once more, just as in her conversation with Philip, Peggy flashed into another mood. She put out an appealing hand, and touched Tim caressingly.

"Timmy, dear," she said, "I'm sorry—there! Will you forgive me, please?"

"Yes, I forgive you," replied Timothy, reassuming his air of possession at once. "But it must not occur again."

"All right," agreed Peggy meekly.

Then she looked at Timothy with a troubled expression.

"Tim," she said, "I want to talk to you like a mother. I have been thinking."

"And have you come to the conclusion that you don't love me!" exclaimed Timothy in a tragic voice. "I know: don't explain! That is a woman all over. A couple of hours—"

"I wasn't going to say anything of the kind, Tim," interposed Peggy quietly; "but I have been thinking." She fingered the buttons of Timothy's immaculate waistcoat. "I have been wondering if a man like yououghtto marry at present. What lovely buttons!" She played a little tune on them to show her appreciation.

"Don't treat me like a child, please," said Timothy stiffly.

"At this moment," replied Peggy, "that is just the way I amnottreating you."

"You think me too young, I know," insisted Tim.

"I wasn't thinking of you at all," said Peggy calmly.

"I see," said Timothy in a hollow voice. "Yourself? Quite so!" He laughed sardonically.

"No," replied Peggy patiently; "of something bigger. Something bigger than either of us. I was thinking—well, of the nation at large."

"Peggy," enquired Timothy, entirely befogged but considerably intrigued, "what are you talking about?"

"Sit down, and listen," replied Peggy.

Timothy obeyed, and the girl continued:—

"It's this way, Tim. Many a man of promise has ruined his prospects by an early marriage. You are a man of promise, Tim."

"Oh, rot!" protested Timothy, kindling none the less.

"If you were to marry now," continued Peggy, in the same thoughtful voice, "you would settle down into a contented, domesticated husband."

Tim nodded.

"It's about time I did," he said darkly.

"No," countered Peggy; "not yet. You are a man of action, Tim. You ought to be free, at present—free to fight, and climb high, and become famous—"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Timothy, despite himself.

"—and to reach the great place you are entitledto. If I were a man, I would let nothing come between me and my career. A career! Would you sacrifice all that, Tim, just to get married?"

"But, Peggy," exclaimed Timothy, "you would help me. At least, you wouldn't be a bit in the way."

"You do say kind things to me, Tim," replied Peggy gratefully. "But it would never do. Even a man of your personality would find it hard to get on without friends and without influence; and very young married men have few friends and less influence. They are back numbers: nobody wants them. It's the rising young bachelors who go everywhere, and can command interest and popularity and fame. A wife would be a dreadful drag. She might make shipwreck of your life."

Tim drew in his breath, and was on the point of making a gallant interjection of protest; but Peggy concluded swiftly:—

"So youmustestablish yourself in the public eye before you settle down. Don't you agree with me?"

She lay back in her chair again, looking interrogatively up into Timothy's perplexed countenance.

"There's a good deal in what you say, Peggy," he admitted. "But I simply could not leave you in the cart, after—"

A sudden inspiration seized him.

"Look here—I have it!" he cried. "Supposing we get married in five years from now—what?"

Peggy was silent, and Tim waited impatiently for her to make up her mind. At last she spoke.

"It would be a very difficult five years for you, Tim. Imagine yourself going about this big world, meeting all sorts of famous and influential people, and growing more and more famous and influential yourself. Girls would be falling in love with you—"

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Timothy, much confused.

"Yet all the time," continued Peggy in a tragic voice, "you would be able to give them no encouragement, because you felt bound to come at the end of five years and marryme—getting on for thirty! It wouldn't be a very comfortable five years for either of us, would it?"

By this time Timothy was once more striding about the room. But he was not posing now: he was thinking hard. Peggy sat motionless. Her face was serene, but her hands gripped the arms of the chair until her pink finger-nails grew white. Once she wondered where Philip was. She did not know that he was walking up and down Sloane Street in the fog, fighting with all the devils in Hell.

At last Timothy appeared to arrive at some decision. He came and sat down upon the edge of Peggy's chair.

"Peggy," he announced, "you have a sense of proportion quite unusual in your sex. You are the most farsighted woman I have ever known."

"I believe I am," said Peggy.

"And the most unselfish," added the youthful Grand Turk on the arm of her chair.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Peggy.

"What you say about my making a career, and all that," continued the newly awakened Timothy—"well, there is something in it, you know! By Gad, there's something in it! I rather see myself in Parliament, letting some of those chaps have it in the neck! Wow-wow!" He bubbled enthusiastically: already, with the simple fervour of the hereditary ruling class, he felt himself at grips with the enemies of the State. "And I am sure you are right, too, about my not tying myself down to an early marriage. I consider it a jolly sporting and unselfish view for you to take. Still, I must not allow you to suffer." He laid his hand upon Peggy's arm. "Look here, Peggy, if I come to you in five years from now and ask you to marry me—will you?"

"Yes," said Peggy.

"Cheers!"

"On one condition."

"And that is—"

"That neither of us has married any one else in the meanwhile," concluded Peggy sedately.

Timothy laughed loudly at this flight of fancy.

"You can set your mind at rest on that point, Peggy," he said. "I will stick to you." He was a single-minded egoist, was young Timothy. "Then it's a deal?"

Peggy, knowing well what was coming, nodded. Timothy bent over her.

"I think we might signify our assent in the usual manner—eh?" he suggested.

"We agreed upon five years—not five seconds!" said Peggy, laughingly releasing her hand. She stepped out of the chair and stood up. "Now, Tim, you trot off to the ball again; it's not much after three. Philip will take me home: he is out getting a cab now. You go and perform a similar service for Babs Duncombe."

"Oh, I say, come!" observed Timothy scornfully. "Babs Duncombe!"

"Why not? She is a very nice, pretty girl, and her father is a very influential man. Remember, Tim, you have got to spend the next five years getting to know influential people. Begin on Babs. If you hurry up, you may be able to catch her for an extra or two."

Already the pliable Timothy was putting on his coat.

"You are right, Peggy," he said. "You are always right. I believe you know what is best for me better than I do myself."

Peggy, surveying him indulgently, mentally allotted to him a maximum of six further months in the single state.

"I shouldn't be surprised," she said. "Good-night, Tim!"

"Good-night, Peggy. You are quite sure about—well, perhaps you're right. Hallo, Theophilus, old son! Got back?"

"Yes," said Philip, putting down his hat. "It's lucky I caught you. I can't find a cab high or low. You had better take Peggy home in yours."

"Tim is going back to the ball, Philip," interposed Peggy. "He has one or two duty dances to work off. I will share his cab as far as the Freeborns' and take it on home. I shall be quite safe."

"Well, hurry up, Peggy," said Timothy, now ready for the road. "I should look a bit of a mug if I got there and found the place shut—what, what? Good-night, Philip, my lad. Don't sit up for me. Half a minute, Peggy! I think I had better have a fresh pair of gloves."

He dashed out, across the hall, and disappeared into his own room, where he could be heard opening drawers and banging cupboard doors.

Philip picked up Peggy's velvet cloak and wrapped it round her.

"Shall I come, too?" he asked, "and act as subsequent escort; or should I find myself a member of the ancient French family of De Trop?"

Peggy picked up her gloves, fan, and handkerchief from the table, and said:—

"You would never bede tropat any time, Philip. But I am not going to drag you to Chelsea to-night. Look—the fog is lifting!"

She drew back the curtain of the window. Twinkling lights were discernible in the street below.

They shook hands.

"Have you given him his answer?" Philip blurted out. He could not help it.

"Yes."

"Can I—guess it?"

"I don't know. You might. It's an even chance, isn't it?"

Timothy appeared at the door.

"Peggy, I am waiting," he mentioned coldly; and disappeared.

"Coming, Tim," replied Peggy. "Good-night, Philip!"

"Tim seems to have rather taken command of things," said Philip, as he escorted Peggy to the top of the stairs.

"He is in a hurry, poor dear,—that's all. He hasn't completed his evening's programme yet. But I must fly."

She turned to go; then paused.

"It's as well you came in when you did, Philip," she said. "Two minutes later and you would have found me gone."

"I am glad I got back in time," replied Philip gravely.

Suddenly the girl looked up squarely into his face.

"Do you know,mon ami," she said, with a whimsical smile, "you have a habit of running things rather fine."

"Have I?" replied Philip dully.

"You have. Talk about the eleventh hour! In—"

"Pegg—ee!" The voice of the fermenting Timothy came booming up the staircase. Peggy did not hurry.

"Good-night—Phil!" she said softly.

"Good-night—Pegs!" replied Philip. He touched her hand awkwardly. They had not addressed one another thus since childhood.

He watched her out of sight down the windingstair, and then turned heavily away. As he paused to close the outer door of the flat his ear caught the sound of light feet. He looked out.

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