"Yes—marry him. And I hope you will be very happy, Peggy dear."
"Thank you, Philip," said Peggy quietly: one had almost said listlessly. She was very white. She sank down into the chair again, and Philip released her hands.
"And now," he said with great energy, "I'll go out and look for a cab for you. There's a fearful fog outside, and there is no saying when Tim will turn up. In any case you can't stay here till the milkman calls. I will see if I can find some kind of fiery chariot for you. I suppose I can't offer you a whiskey-and-soda?"—pointing to the tray on the table.
"I'll take a little soda-water, please," replied Peggy faintly.
She lay back gazing silently into the fire until her host supplied her needs. Then she spoke again, in her old steady, clear tones:—
"You are a good sort, Philip. You ought to marry some day: you are wasted at present. And when you pick a wife, show her to me first, and I will see you're not imposed on."
"Taxi?" interposed Philip, almost roughly.
"I'm not particular," said Peggy. "You had better be quick, though, because I am going to explore this room and meddle with all your—"
But Philip had gone.