I smiled. She did not. I ceased to smile. She was looking at me in a very peculiar manner. 'Peter,' she said, 'are you sure?' 'My dear old Cynthia,' I said, 'what's the matter with you?' 'You are sure?' she persisted. 'Absolutely, entirely sure.' I had a vision of two large eyes looking at me out of a photograph. It came and went in a flash. I kissed Cynthia. 'What quantities of hair you have,' I said. 'It's a shame to cover it up.' She was not responsive. 'You're in a very queer mood today, Cynthia,' I went on. 'What's the matter?' 'I've been thinking.' 'Out with it. Something has gone wrong.' An idea flashed upon me. 'Er--has your mother--is your mother very angry about--' 'Mother's delighted. She always liked you, Peter.' I had the self-restraint to check a grin. 'Then what is it?' I said. 'Tired after the dance?' 'Nothing as simple as that.' 'Tell me.' 'It's so difficult to put it into words.' 'Try.' She was playing with the papers on the table, her face turned away. For a moment she did not speak. 'I've been worrying myself, Peter,' she said at last. 'You are so chivalrous and unselfish. You're quixotic. It's that that is troubling me. Are you marrying me just because you're sorry for me? Don't speak. I can tell you now if you will just let me say straight out what's in my mind. We have known each other for two years now. You know all about me. You know how--how unhappy I am at home. Are you marrying me just because you pity me and want to take me out of all that?' 'My dear girl!' 'You haven't answered my question.' 'I answered it two minutes ago when you asked me if--' 'You do love me?' 'Yes.' All this time she had been keeping her face averted, but now she turned and looked into my eyes with an abrupt intensity which, I confess, startled me. Her words startled me more. 'Peter, do you love me as much as you loved Audrey Blake?' In the instant which divided her words from my reply my mind flew hither and thither, trying to recall an occasion when I could have mentioned Audrey to her. I was convinced that I had not done so. I never mentioned Audrey to anyone. There is a grain of superstition in the most level-headed man. I am not particularly level-headed, and I have more than a grain in me. I was shaken. Ever since I had asked Cynthia to marry me, it seemed as if the ghost of Audrey had come back into my life. 'Good Lord!' I cried. 'What do you know of Audrey Blake?' She turned her face away again. 'Her name seems to affect you very strongly,' she said quietly. I recovered myself. 'If you ask an old soldier,' I said, 'he will tell you that a wound, long after it has healed, is apt to give you an occasional twinge.' 'Not if it has really healed.' 'Yes, when it has really healed--when you can hardly remember how you were fool enough to get it.' She said nothing. 'How did you hear about--it?' I asked.