"Perhaps not, since you have no intention to assist him in his difficulty. But imagine what a complacent reflection it will be for his wife when she realises that she owes the honour of the bestowal of his name upon her to the accident which made him a doctor, and to the super-sensitiveness of the feminine portion of his practice." "And because of that unfortunate remark of his," Sophy observed with an air of reproach, "you intend to snub him badly one day." "Snubbing," Peggy returned, "is a wholesome corrective for conceited men." "I don't think he is nearly so conceited," Sophy contended, "as the pompous person you delight in encouraging to make a fool of himself." It was significant that although no mention was made of Mr Musgrave's name, although her sister's description was so little accurate as to be, in Peggy's opinion, a libel, she nevertheless had no difficulty in recognising to whom Sophy thus unflatteringly alluded. For a moment she did not answer, having no answer ready, which was unusual. She met Sophy's steadfast eye with a slightly deprecating look, as though she acknowledged reluctantly the justice of the rebuke to herself contained in the other's speech. Then she laughed. There was a quality of mischief in the satisfied ring of the laugh, a captivating infectiousness in its quiet enjoyment. Sophy laughed with her. "It's too bad of you, Peggy," she protested. "You have not, for all your shrewdness," observed Peggy deliberately, "gauged Mr Musgrave's character correctly. He couldn't make a fool of himself, because he has no foolish impulses. He is the antithesis of a conceited person. He is a simple, kindly soul, with a number of false ideas of life, and a few ready-made beliefs which he is too conservative to correct or individualise. Aunt Ruby is bent on modernising him; but to modernise John Musgrave would be like pulling down a Norman tower and reconstructing on its foundation a factory-chimney of red brick. I prefer Norman towers myself, though they may have less commercial value." "You don't mean," said Sophy, opening her eyes very wide, "that you like John Musgrave?" "As for that," returned Peggy provokingly, "he is, I think, a very likeable person. I believe," she added, with another quiet laugh, "that he entertains a similar opinion of me." "Does he know you smoke?" inquired Sophy with sarcasm. "He does. He has attempted unsuccessfully to check the habit." Sophy appeared to find this amusing. Her merriment had the effect of making Peggy serious again. "I think being in love is transforming you into a sentimental goose," she remarked with some severity. "It is plain that you consider every one must be suffering from the same, idiotic complaint. It will be a relief when you are married. That is the surest cure for sentiment that has been discovered up to the present." Sophy threw the end of her cigarette in the fire and started to brush her hair.