At least, they thought it was a while. It was much more like two hours; there was so much to talk over, and explain, and arrange for generally. They decided to stay just where they were, for a little while at least, after Francis's work was done. Marjorie was to get strong as quickly as possible, and they were both, after their long practice at being unhappy, to try to be as happy as possible. And the very first time that Francis was jealous, or objected to any one kissing her hand or traveling from New York to take her away from a cruel husband, Marjorie was to leave him forever. This was his suggestion. "But I don't think I would," said Marjorie thoughtfully, lifting her head a little from his shoulder. "I never did, did I, no matter what you did to me? You couldn't even make me go when you sent me--I preferred malarial fever." Francis said nothing to that, except to suddenly tighten his arms about her. He was not yet at the point where he could make a joke of her illness. She had been too near the Valley of the Shadow for that. So they were still sitting very comfortably together, discussing their mutual life--they had planned as far as the tenth year of their marriage--when Peggy descended upon them again. Marjorie flushed and made a faint effort to escape, but Francis sat immovably, exactly as if Peggy were not there at all. "Oh!" said Peggy. "We've made up," said Francis coolly. "Then I suppose you won't be wanting me on the premises," said Peggy, making a dive for the door. "I would be delighted if there was a whole procession of you, like a frieze," said Francis, "walking by and seeing how happy I am." "Oh, but I wouldn't!" protested Marjorie. "Do let me get up and be respectable, Francis. There _will_ be a procession going by presently--you know the men all come and ask how I am every day." At that reluctantly he did put her back in her chair, where she lay for a little longer, starry-eyed and quite unlike an invalid. Peggy went inside, judging that in spite of Francis's protests they would be perfectly happy alone; and, besides, she wanted to tell her mother. The two on the veranda stayed where they were. "But what about the cooking?" demanded Marjorie presently. "It's been all right while you were sick. We are going to get through sooner than I thought." "Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed. "I really did want you to get the work done, and succeed--I never hated you that much, at the worst." "Don't talk about the work!" he said passionately. "The work didn't matter a bit. And I tell you this, Marjorie, if I can help it you shall never do another stroke of work as long as you live!" "That's going too far, as usual," said Marjorie calmly. "You certainly are a tempestuous person, Francis Ellison! I'd be unhappy without something to do. . . . May I play on the banjo sometimes in the evening, and will you stay quite close to me when I do?" "You mean----" he asked.