“Very likely,” said Peter.  “It’s an American tree, is n’t it?”

“Whether it is n’t or whether it is,” said she, “one thing is undeniable:  you English are the coldest-blooded animals south of the Arctic Circle.”

“Oh—?  Are we?” he doubted.

“You are that,” she affirmed, with sorrowing emphasis.

“Ah, well,” he reflected, “the temperature of our blood does n’t matter.  We’re, at any rate, notoriously warm-hearted.”

“Are you indeed?” she exclaimed.  “If you are, it’s a mighty quiet kind of notoriety, let me tell you, and a mighty cold kind of warmth.”

Peter laughed.

“You’re all for prudence and expediency.  You’re the slaves of your reason.  You’re dominated by the head, not by the heart.  You’re little better than calculating-machines.  Are you ever known, now, for instance, to risk earth and heaven, and all things between them, on a sudden unthinking impulse?”

“Not often, I daresay,” he admitted.

“And you sit there as serene as a brazen statue, and own it without a quaver,” she reproached him.

“Surely,” he urged, “in my character of Englishman, it behooves me to appear smug and self-satisfied?”

“You’re right,” she agreed.  “I wonder,” she continued, after a moment’s pause, during which her eyes looked thoughtful, “I wonder whether you would fall upon and annihilate a person who should venture to offer you a word of well-meant advice.”

“I should sit as serene as a brazen statue, and receive it without a quaver,” he promised.

“Well, then,” said she, leaning forward a little, and dropping her voice, “why don’t you take your courage in both hands, and ask her?”

Peter stared.

“Be guided by me—­and do it,” she said.

“Do what?” he puzzled.

“Ask her to marry you, of course,” she returned amiably.  Then, without allowing him time to shape an answer, “Touche!” she cried, in triumph.  “I ’ve brought the tell-tale colour to your cheek.  And you a brazen statue!  ’They do not love who do not show their love.’  But, in faith, you show yours to any one who’ll be at pains to watch you.  Your eyes betray you as often as ever you look at her.  I had n’t observed you for two minutes by the clock, when I knew your secret as well as if you ’d chosen me for your confessor.  But what’s holding you back?  You can’t expect her to do the proposing.  Now curse me for a meddlesome Irishwoman, if you will—­but why don’t you throw yourself at her feet, and ask her, like a man?”

“How can I?” said Peter, abandoning any desire he may have felt to beat about the bush.  Nay, indeed, it is very possible he welcomed, rather than resented, the Irishwoman’s meddling.

“What’s to prevent you?” said she.

“Everything,” said he.

“Everything is nothing.  That?”

“Dear lady!  She is hideously rich, for one thing.”