“It is the act itself, not the place or time of committing it that is of importance,” he said with a touch of displeasure.
Peggy considered this ungracious of him; he might at least have thanked her for her consideration for his feelings.
“In that case,” she returned audaciously, “perhaps you will be so kind as to light me a cigarette?”
Mr Musgrave felt annoyed, and showed it.
“No,” he answered bluntly. “At the risk of appearing discourteous, I decline to do that.”
Peggy was not affronted. She would have thought less of him if he had complied. If one possessed principles, even when they chanced to be mistaken, one had to be consistent and act in accordance with them. Peggy was faithful to her own principles, and she liked sincerity in others.
At that moment, falling upon the sudden hush in the room which had followed John Musgrave’s curt speech, starting on a single note, thrice repeated, and then bursting into a joyous peal, the Moresby chimes broke softly on the stillness, died away on the wind, and were borne back to their listening ears with a fuller, sweeter cadence, conveying the message of the centuries of peace and good-will upon earth. Peggy, when she caught the sound, rose slowly to her feet.
“They’ll be assembling in the hall now,” she said, and looked at John Musgrave. “We had better join them.”
“Yes,” he said.
Suddenly she held out her hand.