“That night,” she murmured softly, “you spoke as a hunted man; you spoke as one at war with Society; you spoke as one who proposes almost a campaign against it. When you took your rooms here and called yourself Peter Ruff, it was rather in your mind to aid the criminal than to detect the crime. Fate seems to have decreed otherwise. Why, I wonder?”
“Things have gone that way,” Peter Ruff remarked.
“I will tell you why,” she continued. “It is because, at the bottom of your heart, there lurks a strong and unconquerable desire for respectability. In your heart you are on the side of the law and established things. You do not like crime; you do not like criminals. You do not like the idea of associating with them. You prefer the company of law-abiding people, even though their ways be narrow. It was part of that sentiment, Peter, which led you to fall in love with a coal-merchant’s daughter. I can see that you will end your days in the halo of respectability.”
Peter Ruff was a little thoughtful. He scratched his chin and contemplated the tip of his faultless patent boot. Self-analysis interested him, and he recognized the truth of the girl’s words.
“You know, I am rather like that,” he admitted. “When I see a family party, I envy them. When I hear of a man who has brothers and sisters and aunts and cousins, and gives family dinner-parties to family friends, I envy him. I do not care about the loose ends of life. I do not care about restaurant life, and ladies who transfer their regards with the same facility that they change their toilettes. You have very admirable powers of observation, Violet. You see me, I believe, as I really am.”
“That being so,” she remarked, “what are you going to say to Sir Richard Dyson?”
Peter Ruff was frank.
“Upon my soul,” he answered, “I don’t know!”
“You’ll have to make up your mind very soon,” she reminded him. “He is coming here at twelve o’clock.”
Peter Ruff nodded.