"But I don't think I would," said Marjorie thoughtfully, lifting her head a little from his shoulder. "I never did, did I, no matter what you did to me? You couldn't even make me go when you sent me—I preferred malarial fever."
Francis said nothing to that, except to suddenly tighten his arms about her. He was not yet at the point where he could make a joke of her illness. She had been too near the Valley of the Shadow for that.
So they were still sitting very comfortably together, discussing their mutual life—they had planned as far as the tenth year of their marriage—when Peggy descended upon them again.
Marjorie flushed and made a faint effort to escape, but Francis sat immovably, exactly as if Peggy were not there at all.
"Oh!" said Peggy.
"We've made up," said Francis coolly.
"Then I suppose you won't be wanting me on the premises," said Peggy, making a dive for the door.
"I would be delighted if there was a whole procession of you, like a frieze," said Francis, "walking by and seeing how happy I am."
"Oh, but I wouldn't!" protested Marjorie. "Do let me get up and be respectable, Francis. There will be a procession going by presently—you know the men all come and ask how I am every day."
At that reluctantly he did put her back in her chair, where she lay for a little longer, starry-eyed and quite unlike an invalid. Peggy went inside, judging that in spite of Francis's protests they would be perfectly happy alone; and, besides, she wanted to tell her mother. The two on the veranda stayed where they were.