"I know what you mean," said Peggy defiantly, "and we may as well have it out now as any time. If you throw him at me, I shall quarrel with you. I detest Rice Jones. He makes me crosser than any other person in the world."
"How can you detest a man like that? I am almost afraid of him. He has a wonderful force. It is a great thing at his age to be elected to the National Assembly as the leader of his party in the Territory."
"I am not afraid of him," said Peggy, with a note of pride.
"No,—for I have sometimes thought, Peggy, that Monsieur Reece Zhone and you were made for each other."
Peggy Morrison sneered. Her nervous laughter, however, had a sound of jubilation.
The talk stopped there. They could see fog rising like a smoke from the earth, gradually making distant indistinct objects an obliterated memory, and filling the place where the garden had been.
"We must go in and call for candles," said Angélique.
"No," said Peggy, turning on the broad sill and stretching herself along it, "let me lay my head in your lap and watch that lovely mist come up like a dream. It makes me feel happy. You are a good girl, Angélique."