"He's rather a lamb, you know," she said, "and I am fond of him. But I don't quite know how much of it is the real thing and how much is gratitude. I think you know"—she hesitated—"that things have not always been too easy at home—"
"Yes, I do know!" said Philip with sudden passion. "Sorry! Go on!"
"—And Tim could take me away from that. He has been very good to me, always, and I have not too many friends. I find friends rather difficult to keep. I fancy Dad may be the reason. You, for instance, have given us up—"
Philip made a sudden movement, but did not speak.
"In fact, you have hardly been inside our house since you left it after your illness."
This time Philip could answer.
"I felt rude and churlish," he said earnestly, "but it seemed the best thing to do. You see, one of the last observations which your esteemed parent made to me was to the effect that he wished to congratulate me upon having got through my illness so inexpensively! After that—"
"I know," said Peggy, smiling, "but I need not apologise. You know what Dad is."
"He furthermore added—" said Philip, flushing.
"Yes, I know what he added," interposed Peggy quickly. "He shouts, rather, when he is making a point. And you, poor thing, being his honoured guest, could not answer back! The fact is, the old gentleman contracted the gravest suspicions of you the first time he found me washing your face! (After all, some one had to do it.) He was always inclined, too, to regard you as a malingerer, though I kept explaining to him that a compound fracture of the tibia could not be simulated. Still, the long and short of it all is, Philip, that you don't come about the house any more. Tim does, though; apparently Dad regards him as harmless. Tim has been very very good to me, and as I say, I am grateful."