XV
HEY dined almost alone in a corner of the glassed-in porch. Tubs of palms had been placed about their table and screened them effectively from the other diners. From indoors the strains of an orchestra came softly. Through the glass the waters of the Sound were dimly visible in the starlight, with here and there a ship's lantern pricking the purple darkness with an orange flame. There were flowers on the table, white lilacs and pink roses. The head waiter seated them, gave his orders in undertones to two flurried underlings and presented a slip to Gordon.
"This is what I had arranged, Mr. Ames. Is there anything else, sir? Anything you'd like changed?"
"Not a thing, Burke. It seems perfect."
"Thank you, sir." The head seemed really pleased. "And the wine?"
Gordon glanced again and looked across. "I presume you like a sweet wine?" he asked.
"I think I'd rather not have any, if you don't mind," she answered hesitantly.
"Really? Then make that a pint, Burke. Or, wait. Would you prefer claret, Peggy? Or a sauterne?"
"Nothing, thank you."
"Not even a cocktail?" he begged.
"Yes, I think I'd like that; just a weak one."
"Clover Club?"
"Or a Palmetto," she said demurely.
"I'm afraid they don't know that here," he laughed. "Two Clover Clubs, Burke, and just a pint of the '93."
"You telephoned?" she asked when the head had gone.
"Yes. One has to here. It is so far out of the way."
"Then you were pretty sure I'd come, weren't you?"
"No, I was not sure at all. I only played it safe."
"If I hadn't come what would you have done?"
"I don't know. I'd have been horribly disappointed, though. I suppose I'd have telephoned out here and told them to chuck the dinner in the Sound."
"And then?" she persisted.
"Spent the evening thinking about you and—and swearing at you, always most politely." They laughed together. Then she sighed, smiled and, leaning back in her chair, surveyed the place through the branches of the plants.
"It's very pretty," she said. "And what makes it more delightful is that I haven't the least idea where I am? Of course, that, I suppose, is the Sound?"
"No," he answered, shaking his head gravely, "that's the Mediterranean, the Gulf of Lyons."
"And this is Nice?"
"Mentone. We go on to Nice in the morning."
"And Monte Carlo? I've always wanted to see Monte Carlo."
"I had planned for three or four days there," he replied questioningly. She nodded.
"And after that?"
"Well, I had thought up the Rhone and then across into Switzerland, if that pleases you."
She leaned forward eagerly, her eyes sparkling. "Switzerland! Do you really mean it? Lucerne? And Interlaken? And Mont Blanc? And—and the Matterhorn?"
"We omit nothing—as long as the car holds out."
"The car?" she questioned.
"The automobile. Have you forgotten that we travel by automobile?"
She clapped her hands softly. "How stupid I am! I had forgotten, really! I hope it does hold out, don't you? Still, we could go by train."
"No, the only way to really enjoy Switzerland is by motor. Perhaps afterwards we might slip down into Italy by rail; Lake Como, for instance, must be worth seeing. I have never been there."
"I shall enjoy the mountains more," she said thoughtfully.
They were still pretending when the waiter brought the cocktails. Gordon raised his glass to her across the flowers.
"To that day, Peggy," he said gravely.
She shook her head lightly. "I'm afraid by that time automobiles will be quite out of fashion," she replied laughingly, "and we shall have to make our trip in an aeroplane. Fancy doing the Alps in an aeroplane!"
"I'll do them in an ox-cart if you'll come with me, Peggy!"
"That would be novel! I could write a book about it, couldn't I? 'Up Mont Blanc in an Ox-Cart'; how would that do for a title? I've always wanted to write a book. I started one once and got as far as page forty, I think it was. It was only a novel. A book of travel would be much nicer."
"Tell me about it," he said with a smile. "The novel, I mean."
"I fear I've forgotten it now. It was a good many years ago. I was still under the influence of The Duchess. It was at boarding school, and I used to write at night after the lights were supposed to be out. I remember the story began at Devereux Hall, the country seat of Sir Godfrey Devereux. It was called 'Lady Leona's Secret.' My heroine was named Leona because that was the name of my best friend."
"Leona Morrill?" he asked.
"Yes; I forgot you knew. I liked her better than any of the others at St. Agnes'. I used to read the story to her as fast as I'd written a page or two, and I remember how excited she got. I think the real reason the story stopped at page forty was because we had our first quarrel then."
"She surely didn't object to being the heroine?"
"Oh, no; what girl would? But I had it arranged that Lady Leona was to marry her old sweetheart, the son of the gamekeeper, who had been to America and who comes back in the third chapter. You see, somebody—I've forgotten who now—was found dead in the copse—or is it coppice?—two years before and the gamekeeper's son was wrongly accused and had to flee. So he comes back in the third chapter so changed that nobody recognizes him. His name—oh, dear, what was his name?"
She gazed frowningly across the table.
"Gordon?" he suggested.
An expression of bewilderment came to her face.
"It was!" she exclaimed. "Gordon Lambert! Now, isn't that the funniest thing? I remember I had the hardest sort of a time finding the right name for him, and finally I came across Gordon, and it sounded nice and sort of dignified and—and manly, and I named him Gordon!"
"Heroes are always called Gordon," he responded soberly. "Just as heroines are always Peggy. And don't you think it's about time that I knew the rest of your name?"
"I haven't told you yet about our quarrel," she countered. "I had it all planned that Lady Leona and Gordon were to run across each other by accident in the park near the scene of the crime. I thought having it near the scene of the crime was rather clever. Do you?"
"Awfully."
"Thanks. And she was to recognize him with a cry and fall fainting on the velvety turf. I don't think I'd got much beyond that with the details, but in the end she was to marry him, throwing over the Earl of Devereux, who was afterwards killed leading a heroic charge in South Africa. But Leona insisted that she should marry the Earl, and didn't like Gordon a bit. I'm afraid I did make him a little priggish, but I tried to make Leona understand that it wasn't really she who was marrying him, but the character in the novel. But she had got it into her head by that time that she was Lady Leona, and just wouldn't think of Gordon for a minute. Of course, I wanted to please her, but, as I pointed out to her, if Lady Leona married Sir Godfrey Devereux there wouldn't be any plot! So we had a sort of a quarrel. It didn't last more than a day, but it dampened my enthusiasm for novel writing, and I've never tried it since."
They talked about books and writers during the fish course, and when the waiter filled Gordon's glass with champagne the latter again proposed a toast, this time laughingly.
"To the author of 'Lady Leona's Secret'!"
"Never mind," she replied, pretending offense, "you may make fun of it, but it would have been a beautiful book if it had ever got finished. There were places in it that would have brought tears to your eyes, perfectly heartbreaking passages, they were. I know, for I used to cry myself when I wrote them."
"I'd like to have known you then," he said wistfully. "I want to have always known you, Peggy. I don't like to think that you have lived twenty years"
"Twenty-three, please."
"Without me." He smiled. "I wonder how you managed, Peggy."
"It was very difficult," she sighed. "I was always conscious of a great want, Mr. Ames."
"Don't you think we could do without the 'Mr. Ames,' Peggy?" he asked.
She shook her head. "N-no, I don't think so—yet."
"Then will you tell me your name?"
"Peggy."
"Peggy what?"
"Peggy-in-the-Rain."
"Please!"
"Not to-night. You see, I want you to find me interesting, Mr. Ames, and nothing, I have been told, so interests a man as mystery. I can't hold my own with those beautiful women over there, and I certainly can't count on my costume. So I shall fascinate you by exciting your curiosity."
"You don't need to, dear. There isn't a woman here to hold a candle to you for beauty."
"Charming!" she laughed gayly.
"You don't believe it? Why, Peggy, there isn't another pair of eyes like yours in the world. They're like violets, dear, the big, blue violets that come in the fall. I've dreamed of them for weeks, Peggy-in-the-Rain! And your cheeks and your mouth, dear, and—oh, girl, I love you, love you!"
He reached a hand across the table to her, but she only shook her head, smiling a little tremulously.
"I thought—we were to forget," she whispered.
"I can't forget! I want you so much, Peggy! Won't you care a little for me? Won't you let yourself care a little, dear? You could if you would, couldn't you? A little, dear?"
Her eyes avoided him as she shook her head gently.
"You promised."
He sighed, withdrew his hand and leaned back in his chair. When, curiosity compelling, she looked up he was frowning at his cigarette.
"I'm sorry," she said penitently. "Have I hurt you?"
His face cleared. "You couldn't," he answered caressingly.
"Oh, yes, I could," she said wisely. "I wouldn't want to, but I could. Perhaps I shall."
"Yes, you could," he agreed. "You could hurt me more than any one else in the world. I suppose it's those we love who can hurt us most, Peggy."
"And who do," she sighed. Then she shook her slim shoulders and laughed. "Don't let's be sad and serious," she begged. "That's so easy any time. This ice is delicious, isn't it?"
"Is it? I'm glad if it is. I've ordered coffee. You drink it?"
"Yes. And—would it be terribly dissipated to have a glass of cordial?"
"I fancy you could live it down in time. What do you like?"
"I don't know. What do you think would be nice?"
"Crème Violette to match your eyes."
"Oh! But is it good?"
"Sickening," he answered cheerfully. "Try Benedictine." He called the waiter and gave the order. Then, "There is something," he continued musingly, "that I wanted to ask you. It was while you were telling about your novel. Now I seem to have forgotten it. Oh, I know what it was. Do you by any chance know a girl named Milburn? Margaret Milburn? She is a newspaper woman, too, I believe."
Peggy watched the waiter very intently as he poured the coffee into the tiny cups.
"Do you know what paper she is on?" she asked.
"No, I don't. She's a—well, a sort of relation; a rather distant one."
"Yes? Of course there are a good many women working on the papers," she said deprecatingly. "Does she do reporting? Or does she run a department?"
"I don't know that, either. It doesn't matter. I only wondered if you'd met her."
"Then you're not very much interested in her?"
"Not very," he answered smilingly. "Would you care if I were?"
"I'd be horribly jealous—to-night," she answered.
"Why just to-night?"
"Because to-night—is to-night."
"And to-morrow?"
She made a grimace. "To-morrow is something we don't speak of. To-morrow is work, and crowded cars and cross people and the smell of ink and headaches and—and"
"Peggy, leave it all. I want you terribly and I'll make you very happy. Look, dear, I won't ask for anything now but the right to care for you and look after you. Just trust me, girl dear. Won't you?"
She shook her head, dipping her spoon in and out of her coffee. "Don't spoil it, please. It's such a nice evening so far."
"There might be so many, many of them, Peggy," he said wistfully, "just as nice. And no more rotten newspapers and tiresome running about town. A home of your own, Peggy, with everything"
"But a wedding ring?" she asked smilingly.
He flushed. "Is that quite fair?" he muttered.
"Probably not," she replied a trifle cynically. "But are women ever—quite fair?"
"I think you could be very fair."
"Could be, yes; perhaps we all could be; but we're not very often. But I'll try to be with you. So I take it back—about the—the ring."
"No, you are right, Peggy," he said gloomily. "I'm a brute. It would serve me right if you never spoke to me again." He drained his glass and studied it a moment moodily before he pushed it away across the cloth. "I suppose the best thing for me to do is to get away and try to—forget you."
There was no answer and presently he looked across at her. She was leaning with her chin on her clasped hands, her eyes fixed inscrutably on him.
"Isn't it?" he demanded impatiently.
She lowered her gaze. "It would be best for both of us," she answered steadily.
"For both?" he exclaimed eagerly. "My God, Peggy, do you expect me to run away when you talk like that?"
"I don't expect you to run away at all," she replied, smiling gravely. "I don't think you mean to."
His eyes fell. "I would if I thought—it would do any good; if I thought I could forget you," he muttered. She shook her head.
"You won't," she said convincedly.
"It sounds as though you didn't want me to—forget you!" he challenged.
"I don't know—what I want," she answered tiredly. "I know that you ought to forget me, and that I ought to forget you; that if I see you again I'll be doing what is very unwise, very wrong. What I don't know is—what you'll do or what I'll do."
"Oh, the whole thing's dead wrong!" he exclaimed passionately. "It's all a wretched muddle. I love you, Peggy, as I've never loved another woman, as I never shall love another woman. I wish to God I were as poor as a church mouse!"
The waiter cleared the cloth for the bowls and Gordon watched him miserably. When he was gone,
"You are right," he said with a sigh. "I shan't run away. I couldn't forget you; I don't want to. No, I'm going to stay, Peggy. I—" He sought her eyes—"I am giving you fair warning, Peggy-in-the-Rain."
She smiled sadly as she lifted her gloves. "I gave myself warning that day in Aiken," she replied, "but I didn't heed it."
"Then you do care, dear?" he whispered caressingly.
She shook her head as she pulled on a glove. "I don't know. That is really true; I don't know. I've tried not to care. I don't want to care." Her fingers fumbled at their task and 
"'I've tried not to care. I don't want to care.'"
For a long moment their eyes held. Then,
"It's too late, Peggy," he said almost sadly. Where, he wondered, was the ecstasy and triumph he had anticipated?
"It isn't!" she denied vehemently. "Not yet! You've no right to say that! I'm tired and I don't know what I'm saying" Her voice faltered into silence. She pulled at her gloves with trembling hands. "I want to go home, please," she whispered.
At the coat-rack he took her cloak from the attendant and placed it about her very tenderly. His hands rested for an instant caressingly on the slim shoulders and a faint odor from her hair reached him. Both left him dull and unmoved. She was his now, he told himself as she gathered the cloak together at the neck with unsteady hands, his for the taking, and yet the knowledge brought no leap of the pulse, no response from desire. For the first time since he had met her the sight and touch of her brought no thrill. He had the unpleasant feeling that they were utter strangers to each other. Dimly he realized that the mood would pass, but now it held him utterly, and it was with a sense of relief that he excused himself with a muttered word about cigars and entered the hall.
Waiting there at the entrance, she was in sight of a dozen tables, and aware of the curious looks fixed upon her; aware too of the whispered comments, and uncomfortably conscious of her plain dark gown and unfashionable cloak. She wanted to get out of sight, yet hardly liked to pass outside alone. In her embarrassment she dropped the little silver mesh purse she was carrying. Three attendants leaped for it eagerly. She accepted it from one of them with a smile, and the incident seemed to restore her poise. She stared back at the starers with careless, well-bred indifference; she had watched them too much not to have learned their tricks.
"You are laughing at me to yourselves," she thought, "you with your jewels and laces and paradise plumes. But I could have all that you have, and more, if I but paid the price that many of you are paying."