"It's about time I did," he said darkly.
"No," countered Peggy; "not yet. You are a man of action, Tim. You ought to be free, at present—free to fight, and climb high, and become famous—"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Timothy, despite himself.
"—and to reach the great place you are entitled to. If I were a man, I would let nothing come between me and my career. A career! Would you sacrifice all that, Tim, just to get married?"
"But, Peggy," exclaimed Timothy, "you would help me. At least, you wouldn't be a bit in the way."
"You do say kind things to me, Tim," replied Peggy gratefully. "But it would never do. Even a man of your personality would find it hard to get on without friends and without influence; and very young married men have few friends and less influence. They are back numbers: nobody wants them. It's the rising young bachelors who go everywhere, and can command interest and popularity and fame. A wife would be a dreadful drag. She might make shipwreck of your life."
Tim drew in his breath, and was on the point of making a gallant interjection of protest; but Peggy concluded swiftly:—
"So you must establish yourself in the public eye before you settle down. Don't you agree with me?"
She lay back in her chair again, looking interrogatively up into Timothy's perplexed countenance.
"There's a good deal in what you say, Peggy," he admitted. "But I simply could not leave you in the cart, after—"