“I was in a temper,” said Margaret, haughtily.  “You ought to have seen that.”

“Yes, I—­er—­noticed it,” Mr. Woods admitted, with some dryness; “but it wasn’t only temper.  You’ve grown accustomed to the money.  You’d miss it now—­miss the pleasure it gives you, miss the power it gives you.  You’d never be content to go back to the old life now.  Why, Peggy, you yourself told me you thought money the greatest thing in the world!  It has changed you, Peggy, this—­ah, well!” said Billy, “we won’t talk about that.  I’m going to burn it because that’s the only honourable thing to do.  Ready, Peggy?”

“It may be honourable, but it’s extremely silly,” Margaret temporised, “and for my part, I’m very, very glad God had run out of a sense of honour when He created the woman.”

“Phrases don’t alter matters.  Ready, Peggy?”

“Ah, no, phrases don’t alter matters!” she assented, with a quick lift of speech.  “You’re going to destroy that will, Billy Woods, simply because you think I’m a horrid, mercenary, selfish pig.  You think I couldn’t give up the money—­you think I couldn’t be happy without it.  Well, you have every right to think so, after the way I’ve behaved.  But why not tell me that is the real reason?”

Billy raised his hand in protest.  “I—­I think you might miss it,” he conceded.  “Yes, I think you would miss it.”

“Listen!” said Margaret, quickly.  “The money is yours now—­by my act.  You say you—­care for me.  If I am the sort of woman you think me—­I don’t say I am, and I don’t say I’m not—­but thinking me that sort of woman, don’t you think I’d—­I’d marry you for the asking if you kept the money?  Don’t you think you’re losing every chance of me by burning that will?  Oh, I’m not standing on conventionalities now!  Don’t you think that, Billy?”

She was tempting him to the uttermost; and her heart was sick with fear lest he might yield.  This was the Eagle’s last battle; and recreant Love fought with the Eagle against poor Billy, who had only his honour to help him.

Margaret’s face was pale as she bent toward him, her lips parted a little, her eyes glinting eerily in the firelight.  The room was dark now save in the small radius of its amber glow; beyond that was darkness where panels and brasses blinked.

“Yes,” said Billy, gravely—­“forgive me if I’m wrong, dear, but—­I do think that.  But you see you don’t care for me, Peggy.  In the summer-house I thought for a moment—­ah, well, you’ve shown in a hundred ways that you don’t care—­and I wouldn’t have you come to me, not caring.  So I’m going to burn the paper, dear.”

Margaret bowed her head.  Had she ever known happiness before?

“It is not very flattering to me,” she said, “but it shows that you—­care—­a great deal.  You care enough to—­let me go.  Ah—­yes.  You may burn it now, Billy.”

And promptly he tossed it into the flames.  For a moment it lay unharmed; then the edges caught and crackled and blazed, and their heads drew near together as they watched it burn.