"Who is the lady?"
"Her name is Babs Duncombe. He told me all about her. She is one of the only other girls he ever loved. I gather that she is about the pick of the 'also rans.' I told him he could have half an hour to close his account with her, and then he could come along here and call for me. There's one o'clock striking. Now, Philip, what shall I say?"
Peggy's eyes met Philip's, and they were full of appeal. But Philip asked one more question. He thought it permissible, under the circumstances.
"I just want to ask this," he said. "Are you—sure there is no one else?"
Peggy shook her head.
"There can be no one else," she said deliberately. "Tim—and you—are the only men I have ever known really well. There can't be any other."
She rose to her feet and stood before Philip—slim, fragrant, and wistful—and laid her hands on his broad shoulders. The hands were trembling.
"Advise me, friend," she said. "I will go by what you say. Be a big brother for a minute. Tell me what to do. Shall I marry him? I—I'm rather lonely, sometimes."
Philip looked up into her face and all hesitation left him. The fight within him ceased. In its place had come the rarest and most wonderful thing in human nature—Love that takes no account of Self. For the moment Philip Meldrum had ceased to be. All he saw was Peggy—Peggy happily married and properly cared for.
Very gently he drew the girl's hands from his shoulders and held them in his own. Then he said:—