"Yes, didn't you know? . . . But Millie knows."
"Married? But when?"
"Oh, years ago, when he was very young. She ran away with a friend of his and he's never heard of her since. She must have been awful!" Henry drew a deep breath of disgust.
"Poor man!" Mary sighed. "Everything's crooked in this beastly world. Nobody gets what he wants."
"Perhaps it's best he shouldn't."
Mary turned upon him. "Henry, there are times when I positively loathe you. You're nearly the most detestable young prig in London—you would be if you weren't—if you weren't——"
"If I weren't——?" said Henry, blushing. Of all things he hated most to be called a prig.
"If you weren't such an incredible infant and didn't tumble over your boots so often——"
She was gone and he was alone to consider her news. Peter in love with Millie! How had he been so blind? Of course he could see it now, could remember a thousand things! Poor Peter! Henry felt old and protective and all-wise, then remembering the other things that Mary Cass had said blushed again.
"Am I really a prig?" he thought. "But I don't mean to be. But perhaps prigs never do mean to be. What is a prig, anyway? Isn't it some one who thinks himself better than other people? Well, I certainly don't think myself better——"