Romola gave Peter a look of indolent inquiry. She arose abruptly.
"You must have some of my spiced wine. It is really delicious. P'êng-yu Moore, we won't bother the servants; won't you help me?"
Peggy folded her hands demurely in her lap. "I hope it isn't intoxicating," she murmured.
Romola had moved graciously across the room, where in a bronze jardinière protruded the dusty, slender necks of tall bottles. She knelt before this. "Nearer," she whispered, as he followed suit. "Peter, tell me——"
"Yes, Romola?"
"What does this little girl mean to you?"
Peggy's clear voice sounded: "Peter, my throat is dusty!"
"In a minute, Peggy," he called back. Lowering his voice again: "She's merely a child. But why——"
"Peter, I've gone to more trouble to-night than you realize, perhaps——"
"What do you want me to do?"