She heard Mrs. Thatcher's voice downstairs, after a while. Then a deeper voice, a man's voice, with a note of impatience and eagerness in it.
"No, don't call her. I'll go right on up," said the voice, over the feminine apologies and protests. "I have to see her—I must see her now. No, I can't wait."
Somebody came flying up the steps. She hadn't closed her door, and his tall figure seemed to fill it. He stopped, with a gasp, at sight of the weeping woman kneeling before the picture on the mantel.
"Anne!" he cried. "Anne!" And he would have raised her, but she clung to his knees, lifting her tear-stained face, her eyes full of an adoration that would never leave them until life left them.
"Peter!" she cried. "Peter! That—that butterfly! I know now, Peter!"
Again he tried to raise her, but she clasped his knees all the closer.
"You mean you know my name is really Peter Champneys, dearest?"
But she caught his hands. "Peter, Peter, don't you understand?" she cried, laughing and weeping. "I—I'm the ogress! I'm Nancy Simms! I'm Anne Champneys!"
He looked from her to her portrait and back again. He gave a great ringing cry of, "My wife!" and lifted her in a mighty grip that swept her up and into his arms. "My wife!" he cried. "My wife!"
Undoubtedly the Red Admiral was a fairy!