A sudden inspiration seized him.
"Look here—I have it!" he cried. "Supposing we get married in five years from now—what?"
Peggy was silent, and Tim waited impatiently for her to make up her mind. At last she spoke.
"It would be a very difficult five years for you, Tim. Imagine yourself going about this big world, meeting all sorts of famous and influential people, and growing more and more famous and influential yourself. Girls would be falling in love with you—"
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Timothy, much confused.
"Yet all the time," continued Peggy in a tragic voice, "you would be able to give them no encouragement, because you felt bound to come at the end of five years and marry me—getting on for thirty! It wouldn't be a very comfortable five years for either of us, would it?"
By this time Timothy was once more striding about the room. But he was not posing now: he was thinking hard. Peggy sat motionless. Her face was serene, but her hands gripped the arms of the chair until her pink finger-nails grew white. Once she wondered where Philip was. She did not know that he was walking up and down Sloane Street in the fog, fighting with all the devils in Hell.
At last Timothy appeared to arrive at some decision. He came and sat down upon the edge of Peggy's chair.
"Peggy," he announced, "you have a sense of proportion quite unusual in your sex. You are the most farsighted woman I have ever known."
"I believe I am," said Peggy.