"It's all wrong, all wrong!" cried Philip passionately. "It's all against every law of God and man! I won't believe it!" "Wrong or right," pursued Peggy quietly, "it is a fact that many a woman nowadays would find a knight rather--what shall we say?--an encumbrance. For instance, I--" "Not you, not you!" said Philip. But Peggy continued relentlessly:-- "If ever I _do_ encounter a man who wants to be my cavalier--which is of course extremely unlikely--" She paused. "You ought to say, 'No, no!' or 'Impossible!'" she pointed out severely. Philip summoned up the ghost of a smile, and Peggy proceeded steadily: "If ever I do meet a would-be Knight, I shall tell him that I am greatly obliged, but that I have other things to occupy me, and that I prefer to remain independent. So it is no use, my romantic friend," she concluded with a whimsical smile, "for you to select me as a suitable helpmeet for one of your imaginary knights. Now we really must get along: the other two will be wondering what has become of us." She turned from the parapet to resume her walk. But Philip looked her straight in the face. "Is that--final?" he asked. For a moment they regarded one another unflinchingly, these two reserved and reticent people. Then Peggy's eyes fell. "Yes," she said in a subdued voice, "that is final. So don't go hunting up a knight for me, Philip." * * * * * When Peggy returned home after the tea-party she found her parent sitting in front of a dead fire, wearing his overcoat and a face of resigned suffering. "Hallo, Dad!" she remarked cheerfully. "Why have you let the fire go out?" "It is of no consequence," replied Montagu Falconer. "I am fairly warm in this overcoat." He coughed and shivered. "Are we having any dinner to-night?" Peggy bit her lip, and kneeling down, began to coax the remnants of the fire into flame. "Dinner will be at the usual hour," she said. "If you don't put coal on a fire it usually goes out, doesn't it?" "At my time of life and in my state of health," replied her amiable parent, "I think I have a right to expect a certain modicum of comfort and attention. This room, for instance, might be kept decently heated, without--" "If you don't like putting on coal yourself," Peggy pointed out, "you can always ring for a servant." Suddenly the querulous Montagu blazed up. "Servants! Exactly! I am left to the servants! I have a daughter, a grown-up daughter, who nominally directs my household. But I am left to the tender mercies of half-witted domestics, in order that my daughter may go out to tea--may trapese from one scandal-exchange to another! Do you ever consider me at all?" "Yes, Dad,--sometimes," said Peggy, bending low over the smouldering fire. At the same moment one of the hot cinders sizzled. CHAPTER XXV CONFESSIONAL--MASCULINE AND FEMININE I