"You are the sort of man," continued Peggy, in the same unruffled voice, "who would get along better in the world with a wife than without one. There are two kinds of men who marry, you know. One likes to make a position and then ask a woman to come and share it, and the other cannot make any position at all unless he has got the woman first. You are the second kind. Now"--Peggy bent her brows judicially, like a panel doctor prescribing for an out-patient--"do I know of any one who would suit you?" Philip made a desperate attempt to release his tongue, which was cleaving to the roof of his mouth; but before he could do so Peggy had resumed her discourse. "She must be the sort of girl," she said, "who likes being killed with kindness; because you are that sort, Mr. Philip." "Don't all girls like being--" began Philip. "No--not all. There are lots of women who rather despise kindness in a man. They prefer to be bullied by him, and regarded as tiresome, inferior creatures. For some mysterious reason it helps them to look up to him." "Do you mean to say," exclaimed that simple-minded gentleman, Philip Meldrum, "that a woman would like a man just because--not although, mind, but because--he was a brute to her?" "Yes," said Peggy; "it is true enough of some women. They don't want to be considered, or studied, or understood: they would rather be swamped by the man's personality and give up thinking about themselves altogether." "But not all women?" persisted Philip, whose conception of the sex was trembling on its base. "Some of them like being considered and studied and understood, Peggy, don't they?" "Oh, yes, most of us do," admitted Peggy, smiling. "Not that we ever are, poor things!" she added resignedly. Philip saw an opportunity of getting back to prepared ground again. "I say, Peggy," he began, "wouldn't you like to be--" "To be understood? Yes, indeed! Do you want me to practise on, Philip?" "Yes," said Philip with sudden fire, "I do. And I want to say this--" Peggy laughed serenely. "You may study me and consider me as much as you like, Mr. Theophilus," she said; "I shall enjoy it. But you won't ever understand me." "I would have a thundering good try, all the same," replied Philip doggedly. "I understood you once--when we were children together." "Yes," agreed Peggy more soberly, "I believe you did. Life was a simpler business then. As we grow up we grow more complicated--at least, women do. But you seem to be very much the same as when I first met you, Philip." "Is that a compliment?" asked Philip dubiously. "It is the greatest compliment I have ever paid you," said Peggy, flushing suddenly. "What a sunset! Look!" They paused, and leaned over the parapet. The October sun was dropping low, and the turbid flood of the Thames had turned to crimson. Philip glanced at his Lady. The hue of the water seemed to be faintly reflected in her face.