sort of thing? Very little amuses most of us. I've seen quitebrainy fellows absorbed in watching flies pitch on a lump of sugar.Their interest was sporting, and had a financial basis, certainly. Inthis instance it is the pleasure of the senses that is appealed to. Ienjoy watching pretty women posturing myself."
"I have no doubt it is artistic," returned John Musgrave reflectively.
It passed through his mind that a pretty woman appeals to the sensesquite as effectively in the natural poses of everyday life, but he didnot voice his thoughts. The suggestion of women posturing for theenjoyment of the other sex jarred his fastidiousness. John Musgraveheld women reverently in his thoughts, or, rather, he held his ideal ofwomanhood in reverence; he knew very little about women in reality.
There was a fair sprinkling of men in the billiard-room when theyentered, who had repaired thither for their refreshment during theinterval. They were smoking and drinking and criticising, with afreedom which occurred to Mr Musgrave as not in the best of taste, someof the scenes that had been staged and the persons who had taken part inthem. John Musgrave found himself standing near a couple of young menfrom Rushleigh whom he knew very well by sight, though he was notacquainted with them. One of them was engaged in watching two menplaying a hundred up; the other was eagerly talking to his inattentivecompanion about Peggy Annersley, whose posturing had apparently pleasedhis appreciative eye.
"She's the gardener," he was saying, and Mr Musgrave frowned withannoyance when he realised who it was the youth was discussing with suchavidity. "A lady gardener--a real lady, you know."
His friend, if he heard, showed no interest; his attention was centredin the balls. The youth jerked his arm.
"She is," he insisted, "a real lady. I know it for a fact."
"All right, my dear chap," the other returned, unmoved. "I know quite anice girl who sells shrimps."
Mr Musgrave felt his anger rising, though why he should feel angry hedid not understand. It hurt him that Peggy Annersley's name--the youngcub spoke of her as Peggy--should be bandied about in this fashion. Ithurt him more that Peggy should be satisfied to dress up and posture forthe delectation of these youths. When the rest of the men left thebilliard-room he remained behind alone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
"Oh," said Peggy Annersley, "I didn't suppose there would be anybodyhere." This was not strictly accurate, because Peggy had seen MrMusgrave through the open door as she was passing the billiard-room andhad entered on the spur of the moment to discover why he was there, andalone. Such is the bump of feminine curiosity. "Have you been herelong?"
"Since the interval," he answered, rising at her entry, and confrontingher with the shame-faced air of a man caught playing truant.
"Then you missed the pictures?"
"I was present during the first half of the programme," he explained,feeling awkward under the steady regard of the observant grey eyes. Tohave missed viewing the pictures he began to realise was a breach of hisduty as a guest.
"And you didn't care for them?"
"I would scarcely put it that way," Mr Musgrave said very earnestly."The pictures were pretty; but the room was very hot; I preferredremaining here. Are the tableaux finished?"
"Not quite. But my part in them is. I came out became I was sothirsty. I've just been murdered by Othello."
She seated herself on a settee and smiled at John Musgrave, who stoodsurveying her with gravely-intent gaze. She was still attired inShakespearian costume and wore a little jewelled cap on her bright hair,which fell about her shoulders and gave her an air of extreme youth.John Musgrave, while he regarded her, was thinking how pretty shelooked.
"You appear to have a predilection for being murdered," he observed."What shall I get you--lemonade?"
She made a negative movement of her head.
"Champagne, please. I'm frightfully tired."
Mr Musgrave poured out a glass of the sparkling wine and handed it toher. He stood behind her while she drank it, and when she finished thewine he took the glass from her and replaced it on the table. When heturned about from performing this office he observed Miss Annersley putout a hand towards a box of cigarettes within reach. He had notsuspected before that she smoked. Her action occasioned him a mostunpleasant shock. Peggy was to experience a shock also. Before shecould select a cigarette and withdraw her hand from the box another handclosed suddenly upon hers and held it firmly. John Musgrave had comequickly behind her and imprisoned her hand with his own.
"Please don't do that," he said. He leaned over the settee, his facealmost on a level with hers, his eyes meeting hers steadily. "I've noright to dictate to you... but I wish you wouldn't smoke."
A glint of laughter shone in Peggy's eyes. The situation was growingincreasingly funny. In her world, to see women smoke was such anordinary matter that it had not struck her that anyone--not even JohnMusgrave--could possibly object. But John, of course, was Moresby, andMoresby had its traditions, and lived by them.
"Why?" she asked.
"It's--unwomanly," he returned seriously.
"Oh!" said Peggy. "What, I wonder, is conveyed exactly by the term`womanly'? I understood that that expression belonged to the MiddleAges."
"I hope not," Mr Musgrave said.
"Well, define it."
"A womanly woman," Mr Musgrave began slowly, weighing his words asthough he felt that the subject were deserving of his utmost care in anappropriate selection of language, "is first and foremost agentlewoman."
"H'm!" commented Peggy. She was tempted to interrupt him in order toinquire if he did not consider her a gentlewoman, but refrained.
"She is," Mr Musgrave proceeded, "considerate in her actions and in herconversation. She is always sincere and thoughtful for others; and shewould never do anything unbecoming to her sex, or unworthy of herself.That is what I understand by the term womanly."
"She would be a bit dull, don't you think?" Peggy hazarded. "Shesounds priggish to me. Do you really believe you would like her, MrMusgrave? I think you'd be fed up in no time. She wouldn't, forinstance, permit you to stand talking to her and holding her hand allthe while. That would, according to your definition as I interpret it,be unseemly on her part."
John Musgrave promptly released her hand and straightened himself andlooked grave. Peggy laughed.
"That would have been better left unsaid," she remarked demurely. "Itwas an indiscretion of speech. I fear it would take me a long time tolearn how to be womanly, don't you?"
"Don't you think that possibly you are womanly without knowing it?" heasked.
"Shall I tell you what the term womanly conveys to me?" Peggy said.
"If you will," he replied.
"It suggests a woman of a big nature and a warm heart. She doesn'tbother her head as to whether what she is doing is becoming; but herconscience troubles her when she does something which is not quitesquare and honest, which is perhaps a little mean. She strives to behelpful and companionable and sympathetic, and she detestscensoriousness and unkind criticism, either in herself or others."
"I am afraid," Mr Musgrave said, with an insight which Peggy had notcredited him with possessing, "that you are rebuking me forimpertinence."
Peggy flushed, and raised her face quickly to his.
"No," she contradicted; "no. I think you meant to be kind."
There was something very bewitching in Peggy's upturned face, in theunwonted earnestness of her eyes, and the sweetly serious curve of theparted lips. John Musgrave, as he returned her steady gaze, was morepowerfully influenced than he had any idea of. He believed that hisinterest in Peggy was of the paternal, platonic order. Many peoplebecome obsessed with the platonic ideal and travel far along the road oflife without discovering that between a man and woman platonic affectionis unnatural. There have been instances of platonic love, but these arefew; it is a rare and an abnormal emotion.
"I wish," he said with unusual impressment, "that you would do somethingto please me."
br /> "What is that?" inquired Peggy, with an instinctive understanding ofwhat he had it in his mind to ask.
"I want you to promise that you will give up smoking."
Peggy did not alter her position; neither did John Musgrave. As she satlooking up at him, a tiny pucker knitting her brows, he remained bendingover her, intently watching her face without the alteration of a musclein his own. He anticipated her answer; none the less he feltextraordinarily disappointed when she spoke.
"I can't do that," she said. "It isn't," she added slowly, "that I donot wish to oblige you, nor