“No, the suggestion came from myself, one night, the night after I told you who Andrew was.”
“But Peggy confirmed it,” asked Hugh. “She didn’t want you to marry me, I believe. I have always felt that, and wondered whether I was right or not. I am sure I am right.”
He had sat upright again, wheeling half round on the hearthrug so that he faced her, with his hands clasped round his knees, and speaking in a quick peremptory voice. Edith felt a sudden and very keen regret that this had been spoken of. For she still recalled that struggle, one-sided and foregone of conclusion though it was, when Peggy had urged her by all arguments in her power not to marry Hugh, and though the sister-love that existed between them, which was on its own level so strong and on any level so true, had put any breach between them out of the question, she did not like being reminded of that. And the thought that Hugh also knew or guessed what Peggy’s attitude had been was also a matter for regret. She made one effort to stop him.
“Ah, what does it all matter, if your heart sings?” she said.
But Hugh shook his head.
“Of course it does not matter,” he said; “but I want to know. Did not Peggy do as I say?”
“Yes, she advised me not to marry you,” she said.
Hugh frowned.
“I thought so—oh, I knew so!” he said. “Why?”
“For the reason that I doubted, dear. Because the years would leave me so old and you so young.”