“And then—­I asked her to marry me, Charmian.”  Here there ensued a pause, during which Charmian began to pleat a fold in the tablecloth.

“That was rather—­unwise of you, wasn’t it?” said she at last.

“How unwise?”

“Because—­she might—­have taken you at your word, Peter.”

“Do you mean that—­that you won’t, Charmian?”

“Oh dear, no!  I have arrived at no decision yet how could I?  You must give me time to consider.”  Here she paused in her pleating to regard it critically, with her head on one side.  “To be sure,” said she, with a little nod, “to be sure, you need some one to—­to look after you—­that is very evident!”

“Yes.”

“To cook—­and wash for you.”

“Yes.”

“To mend your clothes for you.”

“Yes.”

“And you think me—­sufficiently competent?”

“Oh, Charmian, I—­yes.”

Thank you!” said she, very solemnly, and, though her lashes had drooped, I felt the mockery of her eyes; wherefore I took a sudden great gulp of tea, and came near choking, while Charmian began to pleat another fold in the tablecloth.

“And so Mr. Vibart would stoop to wed so humble a person as Charmian Brown?  Mr. Peter Vibart would, actually, marry a woman of whose past he knows nothing?”

“Yes,” said I.

“That, again, would be rather—­unwise, wouldn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Considering Mr. Vibart’s very lofty ideals in regard to women.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you once say that your wife’s name must be above suspicion—­like Caesar’s—­or something of the kind?”

“Did I?—­yes, perhaps I did—­well?”

“Well, this woman—­this Humble Person has no name at all, and no shred of reputation left her.  She has compromised herself beyond all redemption in the eyes of the world.”

“But then,” said I, “this world and I have always mutually despised each other.”

“She ran away, this woman—­eloped with the most notorious, the most accomplished rake in London.”

“Well?”

“Oh!—­is not that enough?”

“Enough for what, Charmian?” I saw her busy fingers falter and tremble, but her voice was steady when she answered: 

“Enough to make any—­wise man think twice before asking this Humble Person to—­to marry him.”

“I might think twenty times, and it would be all one!”

“You—­mean—?”

“That if Charmian Brown will stoop to marry a village blacksmith, Peter Vibart will find happiness again; a happiness that is not of the sunshine—­nor the wind in the trees—­Lord, what a fool I was!” Her fingers had stopped altogether now, but she neither spoke nor raised her head.

“Charmian,” said I, leaning nearer across the table, “speak.”

“Oh, Peter!” said she, with a sudden break in her voice, and stooped her head lower.  Yet in a little she looked up at me, and her eyes were very sweet and shining.