Then, without a moment's warning, her mood changed.
"Philip, my friend," she said caressingly, "forgive me. You are an angel of patience. I did not come here to-night to show you my new frock, or torment you."
"I had gathered that," replied Philip gravely. "Won't you sit down?"
He drew up an armchair to the fire, and the girl sank into it luxuriously, extending her flimsily shod feet to the blaze. Philip stood with an elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down upon his love. All his life he never forgot the picture that Peggy presented at that moment—enthroned in his old armchair in the dimly lit, smoke-laden room, in her shimmering ball-dress, the firelight tingeing her bare arms and shoulders, and her brown eyes and honey-coloured hair glinting in its rays.
"Can I help you about anything?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes, Philip, you can. I want to tell you something. I—I have just had a proposal!"
"Where? When?" asked Philip involuntarily.
"At the Freeborns' dance, on the top of a flight of stairs, about three quarters of an hour ago," replied Peggy with great precision.
"Not in the conservatory?"
"Conservatory? No. Why?"