"I wish," he said with unusual impressment, "that you would do something to please me." "What is that?" inquired Peggy, with an instinctive understanding of what he had it in his mind to ask. "I want you to promise that you will give up smoking." Peggy did not alter her position; neither did John Musgrave. As she sat looking up at him, a tiny pucker knitting her brows, he remained bending over her, intently watching her face without the alteration of a muscle in his own. He anticipated her answer; none the less he felt extraordinarily disappointed when she spoke. "I can't do that," she said. "It isn't," she added slowly, "that I do not wish to oblige you, nor that it would be exactly difficult for me to make such a promise. But I can't recognise any reason why I should. It would be tantamount to an admission that I agree with you that the practice is objectionable. I do not. And I do not wish to encourage your mistaken belief by acquiescing in it. I am sorry. But, you see, I should feel myself something of a humbug if I promised that. I will not, however, offend your sensibilities by smoking in your presence." "It is the act itself, not the place or time of committing it that is of importance," he said with a touch of displeasure. Peggy considered this ungracious of him; he might at least have thanked her for her consideration for his feelings. "In that case," she returned audaciously, "perhaps you will be so kind as to light me a cigarette?" Mr Musgrave felt annoyed, and showed it. "No," he answered bluntly. "At the risk of appearing discourteous, I decline to do that." Peggy was not affronted. She would have thought less of him if he had complied. If one possessed principles, even when they chanced to be mistaken, one had to be consistent and act in accordance with them. Peggy was faithful to her own principles, and she liked sincerity in others. At that moment, falling upon the sudden hush in the room which had followed John Musgrave's curt speech, starting on a single note, thrice repeated, and then bursting into a joyous peal, the Moresby chimes broke softly on the stillness, died away on the wind, and were borne back to their listening ears with a fuller, sweeter cadence, conveying the message of the centuries of peace and good-will upon earth. Peggy, when she caught the sound, rose slowly to her feet. "They'll be assembling in the hall now," she said, and looked at John Musgrave. "We had better join them." "Yes," he said. Suddenly she held out her hand. "Peace and good-will," she said, smiling. "We've got to be friends, you know, on Christmas morning." "Yes," agreed John Musgrave, consulting the clock. "But it wants ten minutes to the hour yet." Peggy broke into a little laugh and withdrew her hand hastily before he could take it. "Your speech admits of only one interpretation," she said; "you don't wish to befriends before the hour strikes."