'And you have told him that I--I--am not to go?' 'Yes.' Prue has pulled her hand violently away, which for a few moments is her only rejoinder; then: 'I hope,' she says in a faltering voice, 'that you told him as--as gently as you could. You are so often hard upon him; it must have been such a--such a bitter disappointment!' 'Was it?' says Peggy sadly; 'I think not! Did you hear him laughing as he went away? You need not make yourself unhappy on that score; he told me he had never been very eager for the plan!' '_He said so!_' cries Prue, with almost a scream, while a deluge of carnation pours over her face. 'Oh, Peggy! you must be _inventing_. He could not have said that! I think--without intending it of course--you often misrepresent him! Oh, he could not have said it! Why, only last night, as we were walking home in the moonlight, he said that to have me there under those chestnuts--I believe that the Harboroughs have some very fine old Spanish chestnuts in their park--would be the realisation of a poet's dream.' Peggy groans. 'If he did say it,' continues Prue, in great agitation, 'it was to please you. He saw how set against the plan you were, and he has such beautiful manners--such a lovely nature that he cannot bear saying anything that goes against the person he is talking to.' 'Perhaps you are right in your view of his character,' says Peggy quietly, but with a tightening of the lines about her mouth that tells of acute pain; 'in fact he told me that the only reason of his having ever advocated the project was that you were so keen about it.' If Peggy imagines that the drastic medicine conveyed in this speech will have a healing effect upon her sister's sick nature, she soon sees that she is mistaken. 'And is it any wonder if I _am_ keen about it?' asks she, trembling with excitement. 'I who have never had any pleasure in all my life!' 'Never any pleasure in all your life!' repeats Peggy, in a tone of sharp suffering. 'Oh, Prue! and I thought we had been so happy together! I thought we had not wanted anything but each other!' Prue looks rather ashamed. 'Oh! of course we have been happy enough,' returns she; 'just jogging along from day to day--every day the same. But that--that,' her agitation gathering volume again, 'that is not _pleasure_.' '_Pleasure!_' repeats Margaret, with reflective bitterness; 'what _is_ pleasure? I suppose that the party last night was pleasure. I think, Prue, that pleasure is an animal that mostly carries a sting in its tail.' 'I--I should not be among strangers either,' urges Prue, with that piteous crimson still raging in her cheeks; '_he_ would be there.' 'And he would be such an efficient chaperon, would not he?' returns Peggy, unable to help a melancholy smile. 'But from what he said to me, even his going seems problematical.' 'Oh no, it is not!' cries Prue hurriedly. 'There is no doubt about that; the very day is fixed. I--I,' faltering, 'was invited for the same one, too.'