“Just for old time’s sake,” she said impulsively.  “You’ll stay for luncheon, too.”

“I’ll have to be at the—­no, I won’t, either.  Do you know, I was thinking I had to be at the bank at twelve-thirty to let Mr. Perkins go out for something to eat?  The millionaire habit isn’t so firmly fixed as I supposed.”  After a moment’s pause, in which his growing seriousness changed the atmosphere, he went on, haltingly, uncertain of his position:  “The nicest thing about having all this money is that—­that—­we won’t have to deny ourselves anything after this.”  It did not sound very tactful, now that it was out, and he was compelled to scrutinize rather intently a familiar portrait in order to maintain an air of careless assurance.  She did not respond to this venture, but he felt that she was looking directly into his sorely-tried brain.  “We’ll do any amount of decorating about the house and—­and you know that furnace has been giving us a lot of trouble for two or three years—­” he was pouring out ruthlessly, when her hand fell gently on his own and she stood straight and tall before him, an odd look in her eyes.

“Don’t—­please don’t go on, Monty,” she said very gently but without wavering.  “I know what you mean.  You are good and very thoughtful, Monty, but you really must not.”

“Why, what’s mine is yours—­” he began.

“I know you are generous, Monty, and I know you have a heart.  You want us to—­to take some of your money,”—­it was not easy to say it, and as for Monty, he could only look at the floor.  “We cannot, Monty, dear,—­you must never speak of it again.  Mamma and I had a feeling that you would do it.  But don’t you see,—­even from you it is an offer of help, and it hurts.”

“Don’t talk like that, Peggy,” he implored.

“It would break her heart if you offered to give her money in that way.  She’d hate it, Monty.  It is foolish, perhaps, but you know we can’t take your money.”

“I thought you—­that you—­oh, this knocks all the joy out of it,” he burst out desperately.

“Dear Monty!”

“Let’s talk it over, Peggy; you don’t understand—­” he began, dashing at what he thought would be a break in her resolve.

“Don’t!” she commanded, and in her blue eyes was the hot flash he had felt once or twice before.

He rose and walked across the floor, back and forth again, and then stood before her, a smile on his lips—­a rather pitiful smile, but still a smile.  There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him.

“It’s a confounded puritanical prejudice, Peggy,” he said in futile protest, “and you know it.”

“You have not seen the letters that came for you this morning.  They’re on the table over there,” she replied, ignoring him.

He found the letters and resumed his seat in the window, glancing half-heartedly over the contents of the envelopes.  The last was from Grant & Ripley, attorneys, and even from his abstraction it brought a surprised “By Jove!” He read it aloud to Margaret.