“Let me go—­oh, Peter!—­let me go.”

“Why—­why did you come?”

“Loose me!”

“Why did you come?”

“To meet—­Sir Maurice Vibart.”

“To meet Sir Maurice?” I repeated dully—­“Sir Maurice?” And in that moment she broke from me, and stood with her head thrown back, and her eyes very bright, as though defying me.  But I remained where I was, my arms hanging.

“He was to meet me here—­at nine o’clock.”

“Oh, Charmian,” I whispered, “are all women so cruel as you, I wonder?” And, turning my back upon her, I leaned above the mantel, staring down at the long-dead ashes on the hearth.

But, standings there, I heard a footstep outside, and swung round with clenched fists, yet Charmian was quicker, and, as the door opened and Sir Maurice entered, she was between us.

He stood upon the threshold, dazzled a little by the light, but smiling, graceful, debonair, and point-device as ever.  Indeed, his very presence seemed to make the mean room the meaner by contrast, and, as he bent to kiss her hand, I became acutely conscious of my own rough person, my worn and shabby clothes, and of my hands, coarsened and grimed by labor; wherefore my frown grew the blacker and I clenched my fists the tighter.

“I lost my way, Charmian,” he began, “but, though late, I am none the less welcome, I trust?  Ah?—­you frown, Cousin Peter?  Quite a ghoulish spot this, at night—­you probably find it most congenial, good cousin Timon of Athens—­indeed, cousin, you are very like Timon of Athens—­” And he laughed so that I, finding my pipe upon the mantelshelf, began to turn it aimlessly round and round in my twitching fingers.

“You have already met, then?” inquired Charmian, glancing from one to the other of us.

“We had that mutual pleasure nearly a week ago,” nodded Sir Maurice, “when we agreed to—­disagree, as we always have done, and shall do—­with the result that we find each other agreeably disagreeable.”

“I had hoped that you might be friends.”

“My dear Charmian—­I wonder at you!” he sighed, “so unreasonable.  Would you have us contravene the established order of things?  It was preordained that Cousin Peter should scowl at me (precisely as he is doing), and that I should shrug my shoulders, thus, at Cousin Peter—­a little hate with, say, a dash of contempt, give a zest to that dish of conglomerate vapidity which we call Life, and make it almost palatable.

“But I am not here on Cousin Peter’s account,” he went on, drawing a step nearer to her, “at this moment I heartily wish him—­among his hammers and chisels—­I have come for you, Charmian, because I love you.  I have sought you patiently until I found you—­and I will never forego you so long as life lasts —­but you know all this.”

“Yes, I know all this.”

“I have been very patient, Charmian, submitting to your whims and fancies—­but, through it all; I knew, and in your woman’s heart —­you knew, that you must yield at last—­that the chase must end —­some day; well—­let it be to-night—­my chaise is waiting—­”