She was so identically the same Sophia that he had left so lately, that he felt reassured. She, at least, could not be the dupe of all this. She had come—how, he did not trouble himself to think,—but she had come with the benevolent intention of saving him!
"How do you do, my love?" he began. "I—I thought I should see you here."
"You only see me here, Peter," she replied, in a voice that trembled slightly, in spite of her efforts to command it, "because I felt very strongly that it was my duty to put an end at the earliest moment to a situation which has become impossible!"
"I'm sure," said Peter, "it is quite time it was put an end to—it couldn't go on like this much longer."
"It shall not, if I can help it," she said. "Miss Tyrrell, pray don't go away; what I have to say concerns you too."
"No; don't go away, Miss Tyrrell," added Peter, who felt the most perfect confidence in Sophia's superior wisdom, and was now persuaded that somehow it was all going to be explained. "Sir William, will you kindly step this way too? Sir William Tyrrell—Miss Pinceney. Miss Pinceney has something to tell you which will make my position thoroughly clear."
"I have only to say," she said, "that your honourable and straightforward conduct, Peter, has touched me to the very heart. I feel that I am the only person to blame, for it was I who insisted upon your subjecting yourself to this test."
"It was," said Peter. "I told you something would happen—and it has!"
"I would never hold you to a union from which all love on your side had fled; do not think so, Peter. And now that I see my—my rival, I confess that I could expect no other result. So, dear Miss Tyrrell, I resign him to you freely—yes, cheerfully—for, by your womanly self-abnegation you have proved yourself the worthier. Take her, Peter; you have my full consent!"