She did so. Then, sitting down to the table and drawing the lamp a little nearer, she smoothed out the crackling pages and began to read.
This is the letter of a man who suffers from an impediment in his speech. I have been able to talk to you on many subjects, but never on this—the thing that matters most in all the world.
Peggy drew her chair a little closer.
I might have told you all about it long ago, the letter continued, for I have been ready to do so ever since you gathered me up from under the car at the foot of Wickmore Hill. But I never did. Twice I have nearly done it, and twice I have drawn back—the first time because it seemed too soon, the second because it seemed no use. If details would interest you, the first time was in the early days of my convalescence at Tite Street. I came hobbling into your drawing-room one afternoon—and you had been crying. I suppose your father had been inconsiderate again. Not that you showed it, but I happened to sit down in the same chair as your handkerchief, which was soaking. If necessary, I can produce the handkerchief as evidence.
Peggy gave a half-hysterical little sob.
The second time was on Chelsea Embankment. I don't suppose you remember.
Then followed Philip's version of what took place on Chelsea Embankment. Peggy smiled indulgently. She could afford to smile now.
But now that the reason which kept you from marrying any one—and I think it was fine of you—has been removed, I want to reopen the subject in earnest. First of all, let me talk about the beginning of things....
Peggy looked up.
"I wonder why men always want to go back to the Year One when they make love," she mused. "Tim did it, too. I suppose it is a man's idea of showing how firmly founded his affection is. 'Established eighteen-seventy-six'—that sort of thing!"