"I say," said Noel, "I hope you haven't been thinking me beastly rude, Olga. I've been wishing you happiness with all my heart all the morning, but I simply couldn't get round to tell you so."
It was charmingly spoken. Her hand lay in his while he said it. He did not seem to observe his brother on her other side. But Peggy observed him and clung to Noel's shoulder with wide, fascinated eyes fixed upon the stranger.
"Noel," cut in the high, baby voice, "isn't that an ugly man? Who's that ugly man, Noel?"
Noel squeezed Olga's hand and set it free to lift the small questioner to his knee.
"That handsome gentleman, Peggy, is my brother, and he is going to marry this pretty lady—whom you know. Any more questions?"
Peggy stared at Olga very seriously. "Do you want to marry him, Miss
Ratcliffe?" she asked.
"Of course she does," said Max. "Everyone wants to marry me. It's a sort of disease that spreads like the plague."
Peggy's eyes returned to him and fixed him with grave attention.
"I don't want to marry you," she announced with absolute decision.
"You'd rather have the plague, eh?" suggested Noel.