I could see that my aunt thought it rather rash of mother to have me home at this time, but I troubled little about that. When Jack heard that I was going up to town on Monday, he insisted that we must travel together; so it was under his escort that I arrived at Liverpool Street that afternoon, and found Peggy awaiting me on the platform.
Peggy looked lively as ever. She never was shy—art students seldom are, I think—and she was soon chattering away to Jack. She appeared shorter than usual as she stood looking up at him, and she complained to me afterwards that conversing with him had given her a pain at the back of her neck. He was in no hurry to reach his destination, and insisted on accompanying us to Moorgate Street, and seeing us into the train for Clapham.
All this while I was longing to put a certain question to Peggy, but not till we had reached Clapham and were walking home from the station was I able to do so.
"Peggy," I said as we reached the edge of the common, and stepped within the welcome shade of trees, "Olive is not engaged to be married, is she?"
Peggy glanced quickly at me.
"Why, who told you, Nan?" she asked in surprise. "I mean what made you think of such a thing?"
"Then it is true?" I groaned. "Tell me who he is, Peggy?"
"I was told not to say a word about it," Peggy replied. "Olive was going to tell you herself, but since you know so much already—"
"Yes, yes," I broke in impatiently, "you must tell me about him. I can hear Olive's story later. Is he good enough for her?"
"She thinks so," said Peggy significantly. "She puts him on so high a pedestal that I tell her he must topple off some day. His name is Percival Smythe."