'Tea's ready,' she called to Airey the moment he appeared.
He took no sort of notice of that. His face, grave, as a rule, and strong, heretofore careworn too, had put on a strange boyish gaiety. He came up behind her chair. She tried to rise. He pressed her down, his hands on her shoulders.
'Sit still,' he commanded. 'Lean your head forward. You've got a plaguey lot of hair, Peggy!'
'What are you doing?' she demanded fiercely.
'You've ordered me about all day. Sit still.'
She felt his fingers on her neck; then she felt too, the touch of things smooth and cold. A little clasp clicked home. Airey Newton sprang back. Peggy was on her feet in a moment.
'You've done that, after all?' she cried indignantly.
'You were at the end of your ideas. That's mine—and it balanced the thing out to the last farthing!'
'I told you it would spoil it all!' Her reproach was bitter, as she touched the string of pearls.
'No, Peggy,' he said. 'It only spoils it if it was a prank, an experiment, a test of your ingenuity, young woman. But it doesn't spoil it if it was something else.'