I remembered Milton and his watch upon the window of M. Pierre. Then, abruptly, her mood changed. The blue eyes, which were so sweetly childish, blazed at me. “No man, however bad he is, shall ever be lured to ruin by _me_. Tell Major O’Shea that Captain Slattery is laughing at him!” “He is entitled to laugh, Nanette,” said a grave voice. O’Shea came out from the recess and stood watching her. A moment she confronted him, then: “Good-bye!” she said. Turning, Nanette ran from the room. I heard the street door slam. “O’Shea!” I cried. “Why didn’t you tell her?” “It is better she should think as she does,” he replied. “Fate has done what I failed to do. Now she will forget.” I have often wondered, since, if he believed it would be so. I have tried, knowing the man’s honesty of soul, to conceive that he hoped it would be so. What _I_ believed or what I hoped I cannot pretend to record. But, at some hour past midnight, I learned that Nanette was unwilling to ignore the promptings of her heart. Dejectedly, I sat smoking a lonely pipe, when the ’phone bell rang. I took up the receiver. I think I knew who had called me, even before I heard her voice. “Is that you, Mr. Decies?” “Yes, Nanette.” “I am so miserable, because----” She hesitated. “Because of what?” I prompted gently. “Because I never gave you a chance to explain. Oh, Mr. Decies! Tell me--_is_ there something I don’t know?” “Why, yes--there is,” I replied. “You don’t know that Major O’Shea and I were totally ignorant of the plot to trap the man you call Captain Slattery.” “Oh!” came, as a sort of sigh, broken by a sob. “And I told him---- Mr. Decies, do you think you can ever forgive me?” “I _do_ forgive you, Nanette.” “And do you think---- Good-night!” “Nanette!” I called. “Nanette!” But there was no answer. CHAPTER XXIV. PETER PAN A delicious haze hung over the Serpentine, by which token I knew that a warm day might be expected. Votaries of Peter Pan were few, for the morning was young as yet, but I sat watching him in his green temple and I thought how puzzled some archæologist of the future was going to be. Strange to reflect that a Scotsman should add to the ranks of the gods; stranger still that his immortal child should find himself so completely at home upon Olympus. More and more strange the reflection that none of the older gods were jealous. Children of course came to pay tribute, and I think it was this morning I learned for the first time that there are many juvenile citizens whose day is incomplete unless they have made offering--a laugh, a pointed finger, a fleeting glance--to the god of that dear world which is hidden from most of us behind the gates of innocence. To many an exile under palm and pine, the coming of spring means dreams of crocuses and Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.