She hesitated. It was always an effort for her to be direct. Now, apparently, the effort was too great. The next moment she had rambled off on some tortuous bypath of her own, which, though it presumably led in the end to her destination, was evidently a long way round. 'I have known you for so many years now, Peter, and I don't know of anybody whose character I admire more. You are so generous--quixotic in fact. You are one of the few really unselfish men I have ever met. You are always thinking of other people. Whatever it cost you, I know you would not hesitate to give up anything if you felt that it was for someone else's happiness. I do admire you so for it. One meets so few young men nowadays who consider anybody except themselves.' She paused, either for breath or for fresh ideas, and I took advantage of the lull in the rain of bouquets to repeat my question. 'What _did_ you want to see me about?' I asked patiently. 'About Cynthia. She asked me to see you.' 'Oh!' 'You got a letter from her.' 'Yes.' 'Last night, when she came home, she told me about it, and showed me your answer. It was a beautiful letter, Peter. I'm sure I cried when I read it. And Cynthia did, I feel certain. Of course, to a girl of her character that letter was final. She is so loyal, dear child.' 'I don't understand.' As Sam would have said, she seemed to be speaking; words appeared to be fluttering from her; but her meaning was beyond me. 'Once she has given her promise, I am sure nothing would induce her to break it, whatever her private feelings. She is so loyal. She has such character.' 'Would you mind being a little clearer?' I said sharply. 'I really don't understand what it is you are trying to tell me. What do you mean about loyalty and character? I don't understand.' She was not to be hustled from her bypath. She had chosen her route, and she meant to travel by it, ignoring short-cuts. 'To Cynthia, as I say, it was final. She simply could not see that the matter was not irrevocably settled. I thought it so fine of her. But I am her mother, and it was my duty not to give in and accept the situation as inevitable while there was anything I could do for her happiness. I knew your chivalrous, unselfish nature, Peter. I could speak to you as Cynthia could not. I could appeal to your generosity in a way impossible, of course, for her. I could put the whole facts of the case clearly before you.' I snatched at the words. 'I wish you would. What are they?' She rambled off again.