“I—­I see,” he said, very carefully.  “You think I—­want the money.  Yes—­I see.”

“And why not?” she queried, pleasantly.  “Dear me, money’s a very sensible thing to want, I’m sure.  It makes a great difference, you know.”

He looked down into her face for a moment.  One might have sworn this detected fortune-hunter pitied her.

“Yes,” he assented, slowly, “it makes a difference—­not a difference for the better, I’m afraid, Peggy.”

Ensued a silence.

Then Margaret tossed her head.  She was fast losing her composure.  She would have given the world to retract what she had said, and accordingly she resolved to brazen it out.

“You needn’t look at me as if I were a convicted criminal,” she said, sharply.  “I won’t marry you, and there’s an end of it.”

“It isn’t that I’m thinking of,” said Mr. Woods, with a grave smile.  “You see, it takes me a little time to realise your honest opinion of me.  I believe I understand now.  You think me a very hopeless cad—­that’s about your real opinion, isn’t it, Peggy?  I didn’t know that, you see.  I thought you knew me better than that.  You did once, Peggy—­once, a long time ago, and—­and I hoped you hadn’t quite forgotten that time.”

The allusion was ill chosen.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, gasping. “You to remind me of that time!—­you of all men.  Haven’t you a vestige of shame?  Haven’t you a rag of honour left?  Oh, I didn’t know there were such men in the world!  And to think—­to think—­” Margaret’s glorious voice broke, and she wrung her hands helplessly.

Then, after a little, she raised her eyes to his, and spoke without a trace of emotion.  “To think,” she said, and her voice was toneless now, “to think that I loved you!  It’s that that hurts, you know.  For I loved you very dearly, Billy Woods—­yes, I think I loved you quite as much as any woman can ever love a man.  You were the first, you see, and girls—­girls are very foolish about such things.  I thought you were brave, and strong, and clean, and honest, and beautiful, and dear—­oh, quite the best and dearest man in the world, I thought you, Billy Woods!  That—­that was queer, wasn’t it?” she asked, with a listless little shiver.  “Yes, it was very queer.  You didn’t think of me in quite that way, did you?  No, you—­you thought I was well enough to amuse you for a while.  I was well enough for a summer flirtation, wasn’t I, Billy?  But marriage—­ah, no, you never thought of marriage then.  You ran away when Uncle Fred suggested that.  You refused point-blank—­refused in this very room—­didn’t you, Billy?  Ah, that—­that hurt,” Margaret ended, with a faint smile.  “Yes, it—­hurt.”

Billy Woods raised a protesting hand, as though to speak, but afterward he drew a deep, tremulous breath and bit his lip and was silent.