"You are like one who has walked with—death!" I rose to my feet, and stood looking down at her. "Are you afraid of me, Charmian?" "No, Peter." "I am glad of that," said I, "because I want to ask you—to marry me, Charmian." CHAPTER XXIX IN WHICH CHARMIAN ANSWERS MY QUESTION "Peter!" "Yes?" "I wish you wouldn't." "Wouldn't what, Charmian?" "Stir your tea round and round and round—it is really most—exasperating!" "I beg your pardon!" said I humbly. "And you eat nothing; and that is also exasperating!" "I am not hungry." "And I was so careful with the bacon—see it is fried—beautifully—yes, you are very exasperating, Peter!" Here, finding I was absent-mindedly stirring my tea round and round again, I gulped it down out of the way, whereupon Charmian took my cup and refilled it; having done which, she set her elbows upon the table, and, propping her chin in her hands, looked at me. "You climbed out through your window last night, Peter?" "Yes." "It must have been a—dreadfully tight squeeze!" "Yes." "And why did you go by the window?" "I did not wish to disturb you." "That was very thoughtful of you—only, you see, I was up and dressed; the roar of the thunder woke me. It was a dreadful storm, Peter!" "Yes." "The lightning was awful!" "Yes." "And you were out in it?" "Yes." "Oh, you poor, poor Peter! How cold you must have been!" "On the contrary," I began, "I—" "And wet, Peter—miserably wet and clammy!" "I did not notice it," I murmured. "Being a philosopher, Peter, and too much engrossed in your thoughts?" "I was certainly thinking." "Of yourself!" "Yes—" "You are a great egoist, aren't you, Peter?" "Am I, Charmian?" "Who but an egoist could stand with his mind so full of himself and his own concerns as to be oblivious to thunder and lightning, and not know that he is miserably clammy and wet?" "I thought of others besides myself." "But only in connection with yourself; everything you have ever read or seen you apply to yourself, to make that self more worthy in Mr. Vibart's eyes. Is this worthy of Peter Vibart? Can Peter Vibart do this, that, or the other, and still retain the respect of Peter Vibart? Then why, being in all things so very correct and precise, why is Peter Vibart given to prowling abroad at midnight, quite oblivious to thunder, lightning, wet and clamminess? I answer: Because Peter Vibart is too much engrossed by—Peter Vibart. There! that sounds rather cryptic and very full of Peter Vibart; but that is as it should be," and she laughed. "And what does it mean, Charmian?" "Good sir, the sibyl hath spoken! Find her meaning for yourself." "You have called me, on various occasions, a 'creature,' a 'pedant'—very frequently a 'pedant,' and now, it seems I am an 'egoist,' and all because—"