It was late in the afternoon when Peter came to pay his usual daily visit. Kitty brought him into the room and vanished hastily, leaving the two alone together.
"You know?" he said quietly.
Nan bent her head.
"Yes, I know," she answered. "Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry!" Adding, after a pause: "Must you have her with you?"
"I must, dear."
"You'd be happier alone."
"Less unhappy, perhaps." He corrected her gently. "But one can't always consider one's own personal wishes. I've a responsibility towards Celia. She's my wife. And though she's been foolish and treated life rather as though it were a game of battledore and shuttlecock, she's never done anything to unfit herself to be my wife. Even if she had—well, I still shouldn't consider I was absolved from my responsibility towards her. Marriage is 'for better, for worse,' and I can't be coward enough to shirk if it turns out 'for worse.' If I did, anything might happen—anything! Celia's a woman of no will-power—driven like a bit of fluff by every breeze that blows. So you see, beloved, I must be waiting to help her when she comes back."
Nan lifted her eyes to his face.
"I see that you're just the best and bravest man I know—preux chevalier, as I once called you. . . . Oh, Peter! She's the luckiest woman in the world to be your wife! And she doesn't even know it!"
He drew her hands into his.