"I thought so. As for these old pipes, you ought either to send them away to be cleaned and revarnished, or else get a new set altogether. No, I don't think much of your taste in mantelpiece ornaments, Philip. Now if _I_ were an eligible young bachelor, I should sweep all these hideosities away and substitute a row of photographs of fair ladies." "I'm afraid I haven't got any," said Philip. Peggy regarded him coldly. "Indeed!" she observed. "I have an idea that I once presented you with my portrait." "Here it is," said Philip. He pointed to the open bureau. There stood Peggy's photograph, in a large round silver frame. "H'm!" said the original, with her head on one side. "The darkest corner of an old bureau! I thought as much. I suppose this empty space in the middle of the mantelpiece is reserved?" "Reserved--what for?" enquired the mystified Philip. Peggy pointed an accusing finger. "Whose photograph," she enquired, "does a man eventually plant in the middle of his mantelpiece? Hasn't she come along yet, Theophilus? You must hustle, you know. You are getting on. You must not be left on the shelf!" She put her head upon one side in the manner which Philip loved, and smiled provocatively up at her sere and yellow devotee. Then, without a moment's warning, her mood changed. "Philip, my friend," she said caressingly, "forgive me. You are an angel of patience. I did not come here to-night to show you my new frock, or torment you." "I had gathered that," replied Philip gravely. "Won't you sit down?" He drew up an armchair to the fire, and the girl sank into it luxuriously, extending her flimsily shod feet to the blaze. Philip stood with an elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down upon his love. All his life he never forgot the picture that Peggy presented at that moment--enthroned in his old armchair in the dimly lit, smoke-laden room, in her shimmering ball-dress, the firelight tingeing her bare arms and shoulders, and her brown eyes and honey-coloured hair glinting in its rays. "Can I help you about anything?" he asked bluntly. "Yes, Philip, you can. I want to tell you something. I--I have just had a proposal!" "Where? When?" asked Philip involuntarily. "At the Freeborns' dance, on the top of a flight of stairs, about three quarters of an hour ago," replied Peggy with great precision. "Not in the conservatory?" "Conservatory? No. Why?" "I had a kind of notion," said Philip lamely, "that these events always occurred in a conservatory. You know--Chinese lanterns--distant music--exotic atmosphere--and so on! Was it a good proposal?" "Fair to middling, so far as my experience goes." "Did he--carry you off your feet?" "No," said the girl soberly, "he didn't. I maintained my equilibrium: it's a way I have. But you mustn't think I didn't enjoy it. It was most thrilling." "Quite good, in fact, for a first attempt?" "First attempt?" Peggy's eyebrows went up. "How do you know it was a first attempt? Have you guessed who it was?"