"Oh," said Peggy Annersley, "I didn't suppose there would be anybody here." This was not strictly accurate, because Peggy had seen Mr Musgrave through the open door as she was passing the billiard-room and had entered on the spur of the moment to discover why he was there, and alone. Such is the bump of feminine curiosity. "Have you been here long?" "Since the interval," he answered, rising at her entry, and confronting her with the shame-faced air of a man caught playing truant. "Then you missed the pictures?" "I was present during the first half of the programme," he explained, feeling awkward under the steady regard of the observant grey eyes. To have missed viewing the pictures he began to realise was a breach of his duty as a guest. "And you didn't care for them?" "I would scarcely put it that way," Mr Musgrave said very earnestly. "The pictures were pretty; but the room was very hot; I preferred remaining here. Are the tableaux finished?" "Not quite. But my part in them is. I came out became I was so thirsty. I've just been murdered by Othello." She seated herself on a settee and smiled at John Musgrave, who stood surveying her with gravely-intent gaze. She was still attired in Shakespearian costume and wore a little jewelled cap on her bright hair, which fell about her shoulders and gave her an air of extreme youth. John Musgrave, while he regarded her, was thinking how pretty she looked. "You appear to have a predilection for being murdered," he observed. "What shall I get you--lemonade?" She made a negative movement of her head. "Champagne, please. I'm frightfully tired." Mr Musgrave poured out a glass of the sparkling wine and handed it to her. He stood behind her while she drank it, and when she finished the wine he took the glass from her and replaced it on the table. When he turned about from performing this office he observed Miss Annersley put out a hand towards a box of cigarettes within reach. He had not suspected before that she smoked. Her action occasioned him a most unpleasant shock. Peggy was to experience a shock also. Before she could select a cigarette and withdraw her hand from the box another hand closed suddenly upon hers and held it firmly. John Musgrave had come quickly behind her and imprisoned her hand with his own. "Please don't do that," he said. He leaned over the settee, his face almost on a level with hers, his eyes meeting hers steadily. "I've no right to dictate to you... but I wish you wouldn't smoke." A glint of laughter shone in Peggy's eyes. The situation was growing increasingly funny. In her world, to see women smoke was such an ordinary matter that it had not struck her that anyone--not even John Musgrave--could possibly object. But John, of course, was Moresby, and Moresby had its traditions, and lived by them. "Why?" she asked. "It's--unwomanly," he returned seriously.