"Yes, I know what he added," interposed Peggy quickly. "He shouts, rather, when he is making a point. And you, poor thing, being his honoured guest, could not answer back! The fact is, the old gentleman contracted the gravest suspicions of you the first time he found me washing your face! (After all, some one had to do it.) He was always inclined, too, to regard you as a malingerer, though I kept explaining to him that a compound fracture of the tibia could not be simulated. Still, the long and short of it all is, Philip, that you don't come about the house any more. Tim does, though; apparently Dad regards him as harmless. Tim has been very very good to me, and as I say, I am grateful." "And you are thinking of marrying him?" "Frankly, I am thinking of it." "But you have not said Yes?" "No. Next question, please?" "You are sure that Tim cares for you?" "Well," said Peggy cheerfully, "to judge by the way he went on upon the top step, I should call him a pretty severe case." "But does he love you?" persisted Philip doggedly. "A woman is always supposed to know that." "Yes, Philip," assented Peggy quietly; "she usually knows." "Where is Tim all this time, by the way?" "I left him at the ball. He was particularly anxious to have a farewell waltz with a certain girl. You see, he is by way of burning his boats to-night." "Who is the lady?" "Her name is Babs Duncombe. He told me all about her. She is one of the only other girls he ever loved. I gather that she is about the pick of the 'also rans.' I told him he could have half an hour to close his account with her, and then he could come along here and call for me. There's one o'clock striking. Now, Philip, _what_ shall I say?" Peggy's eyes met Philip's, and they were full of appeal. But Philip asked one more question. He thought it permissible, under the circumstances. "I just want to ask this," he said. "Are you--sure there is no one else?" Peggy shook her head. "There can be no one else," she said deliberately. "Tim--and you--are the only men I have ever known really well. There can't be any other." She rose to her feet and stood before Philip--slim, fragrant, and wistful--and laid her hands on his broad shoulders. The hands were trembling. "Advise me, friend," she said. "I will go by what you say. Be a big brother for a minute. Tell me what to do. Shall I marry him? I--I'm rather lonely, sometimes." Philip looked up into her face and all hesitation left him. The fight within him ceased. In its place had come the rarest and most wonderful thing in human nature--Love that takes no account of Self. For the moment Philip Meldrum had ceased to be. All he saw was Peggy--Peggy happily married and properly cared for. Very gently he drew the girl's hands from his shoulders and held them in his own. Then he said:-- "Yes--marry him. And I hope you will be very happy, Peggy dear."