“It is nothing,” I answered, “unless it be that I have not yet recovered from Black George’s fist; it is nothing!” And so the meal drew to an end, and though, feeling my thoughts base, I sat with my head on my hand and my eyes upon the cloth, yet I knew she watched me, and more than once I heard her sigh.  A man who acts on impulse may sometimes be laughed at for his mistakes, but he will frequently attain to higher things, and be much better loved by his fellows than the colder, more calculating logician who rarely makes a blunder; and Simon Peter was a man of impulse.

Supper being over and done, Charmian must needs take my coat, despite my protests, and fall to work upon its threadbare shabbiness, mending a great rent in the sleeve.  And, watching her through the smoke of my pipe, noting the high mould of her features, the proud poise of her head, the slender elegance of her hands, I was struck sharply by her contrast to the rough, bare walls that were my home, and the toil-worn, unlovely garment beneath her fingers.  As I looked, she seemed to be suddenly removed from me—­far above and beyond my reach.

“That is the fourth time, Peter.”

“What, Charmian?”

“That is the fourth time you have sighed since you lighted your pipe, and it is out, and you never noticed it!”

“Yes” said I, and laid the pipe upon the table and sighed again, before I could stop myself.  Charmian raised her head, and looked at me with a laugh in her eyes.

“Oh, most philosophical, dreamy blacksmith! where be your thoughts?”

“I was thinking how old and worn and disreputable my coat looked.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Charmian, holding it up and regarding it with a little frown, “forsooth it is ancient, and hath seen better days.”

“Like its wearer!” said I, and sighed again.

“Hark to this ancient man!” she laughed, “this hoary-headed blacksmith of ours, who sighs, and forever sighs; if it could possibly be that he had met any one sufficiently worthy—­I should think that he had fallen—­philosophically—­in love; how think you, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance?”

“I remember,” said I, “that, among other things, you once called me ‘Superior Mr. Smith.’” Charmian laughed and nodded her head at me.

“You had been describing to me some quite impossible, idealistic creature, alone worthy of your regard, sir.”

“Do you still think me ‘superior,’ Charmian?”

“Do you still dream of your impalpable, bloodlessly-perfect ideals, sir?”

“No,” I answered; “no, I think I have done with dreaming.”

“And I have done with this, thy coat, for behold! it is finished,” and rising, she folded it over the back of my chair.

Now, as she stood thus behind me, her hand fell and, for a moment, rested lightly upon my shoulder.

“Peter.”

“Yes, Charmian.”

“I wish, yes, I do wish that you were either much younger or very much older.”