Peter bent forward. They were sitting together on the wide window-seat, the sound of the traffic from below coming murmuringly to their ears like some muted diapason.
"Nan"--Peter spoke very quietly--"Nan--was he the man?"
She nodded voicelessly. Peter made a quick gesture as though to lay his hand over hers, then checked it abruptly.
"No, I don't think so," she answered uncertainly. "I--I'm not sure. Oh, Peter, how difficult life is!"
He assented briefly. He knew very well how difficult.
"I can't imagine why I thought of Maryon just now," went on Nan, a puzzled frown wrinkling her brows. "I never do, as a rule, when I'm with you."
She smiled rather wistfully and with a restless movement he sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. A little cry of dismay broke from her and she came quickly to his side, lifting a questioning face to his.
"Why, Peter--Peter--What have I said? You're not angry, are you?"
"_Angry_!" His voice roughened a bit. "If I could only tell you the truth!"
"Don't ask me, Nan. There are some things that can't be told."
As he spoke, his eyes, dark and passionate with some forcibly restrained emotion, met hers, and in an instant it seemed as though the thing he must not speak were spoken.
Nan flushed scarlet from brow to throat, her eyes widened, and the breath fluttered unevenly between her parted lips. She knew--_she knew_ what Mallory had left unsaid.
She held out her hands to him with a sudden childish gesture of surrender, and involuntarily he gathered them into his own. At the same moment the door opened to admit the maid and he drew back quickly, while Nan's outstretched hands fell limply to her side.
"This wire's just come for you, miss," said the maid, and from her manner it was quite impossible to guess whether she had observed anything unusual or not. "I took it to Miss Craig by mistake."
Mechanically Nan extracted the thin sheet from its torn envelope. As her eyes absorbed the few lines of writing, her face whitened and she drew her breath in sharply.
The next instant, however, she recovered her poise, and crumpling the telegram into a ball she addressed the maid composedly.
"There's no answer," she said. Adding: "Has anyone arrived yet?"
"Mrs. Seymour is here, miss. And"--listening--"I think Lord St. John must have arrived."