"It isn't that I'm thinking of," said Mr. Woods, with a grave smile. "You see, it takes me a little time to realise your honest opinion of me. I believe I understand now. You think me a very hopeless cad--that's about your real opinion, isn't it, Peggy? I didn't know that, you see. I thought you knew me better than that. You did once, Peggy--once, a long time ago, and--and I hoped you hadn't quite forgotten that time." The allusion was ill chosen. "Oh, oh, _oh!_" she cried, gasping. "_You_ to remind me of that time!--you of all men. Haven't you a vestige of shame? Haven't you a rag of honour left? Oh, I didn't know there were such men in the world! And to think--to think--" Margaret's glorious voice broke, and she wrung her hands helplessly. Then, after a little, she raised her eyes to his, and spoke without a trace of emotion. "To think," she said, and her voice was toneless now, "to think that I loved you! It's that that hurts, you know. For I loved you very dearly, Billy Woods--yes, I think I loved you quite as much as any woman can ever love a man. You were the first, you see, and girls--girls are very foolish about such things. I thought you were brave, and strong, and clean, and honest, and beautiful, and dear--oh, quite the best and dearest man in the world, I thought you, Billy Woods! That--that was queer, wasn't it?" she asked, with a listless little shiver. "Yes, it was very queer. You didn't think of me in quite that way, did you? No, you--you thought I was well enough to amuse you for a while. I was well enough for a summer flirtation, wasn't I, Billy? But marriage--ah, no, you never thought of marriage then. You ran away when Uncle Fred suggested that. You refused point-blank--refused in this very room--didn't you, Billy? Ah, that--that hurt," Margaret ended, with a faint smile. "Yes, it--hurt." Billy Woods raised a protesting hand, as though to speak, but afterward he drew a deep, tremulous breath and bit his lip and was silent. She had spoken very quietly, very simply, very like a tired child; now her voice lifted. "But you've hurt me more to-night," she said, equably--"to-night, when you've come cringing back to me--to me, whom you'd have none of when I was poor. I'm rich now, though. That makes a difference, doesn't it, Billy? You're willing to whistle back the girl's love you flung away once--yes, quite willing. But can't you understand how much it must hurt me to think I ever loved you?" Margaret asked, very gently. She wanted him to understand. She wanted him to be ashamed. She prayed God that he might be just a little, little bit ashamed, so that she might be able to forgive him. But he stood silent, bending puzzled brows toward her.