She had spoken very quietly, very simply, very like a tired child; now her voice lifted.  “But you’ve hurt me more to-night,” she said, equably—­“to-night, when you’ve come cringing back to me—­to me, whom you’d have none of when I was poor.  I’m rich now, though.  That makes a difference, doesn’t it, Billy?  You’re willing to whistle back the girl’s love you flung away once—­yes, quite willing.  But can’t you understand how much it must hurt me to think I ever loved you?” Margaret asked, very gently.

She wanted him to understand.  She wanted him to be ashamed.  She prayed God that he might be just a little, little bit ashamed, so that she might be able to forgive him.

But he stood silent, bending puzzled brows toward her.

“Can’t you understand, Billy?” she pleaded, softly.  “I can’t help seeing what a cur you are.  I must hate you, Billy—­of course, I must,” she insisted, very gently, as though arguing the matter with herself; then suddenly she sobbed and wrung her hands in anguish.  “Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” she wailed.  “God help me, I can’t hate you, even though I know you for what you are!”

His arms lifted a little; and in a flash Margaret knew that what she most wanted in all the world was to have them close about her, and then to lay her head upon his shoulder and cry contentedly.

Oh, she did want to forgive him!  If he had lost all sense of shame, why could he not lie to her?  Surely, he could at least lie?  And, oh, how gladly she would believe!—­only the tiniest, the flimsiest fiction, her eyes craved of him.

But he merely said “I see—­I see,” very slowly, and then smiled.  “We’ll put the money aside just now,” he said.  “Perhaps, after a little, we—­we’ll came back to that.  I think you’ve forgotten, though, that when—­when Uncle Fred and I had our difference you had just thrown me over—­had just ordered me never to speak to you again?  I couldn’t very well ask you to marry me, could I, under those circumstances?”

“I spoke in a moment of irritation,” a very dignified Margaret pointed out; “you would have paid no attention whatever to it if you had really—­cared.”

Billy laughed, rather sadly.  “Oh, I cared right enough,” he said.  “I still care.  The question is—­do you?”

“No,” said Margaret, with decision, “I don’t—­not in the least.”

“Peggy,” Mr. Woods commanded, “look at me!”

“You have had your answer, I think,” Miss Hugonin indifferently observed.

Billy caught her chin in his hand and turned her face to his.  “Peggy, do you—­care?” he asked, softly.

And Margaret looked into his honest-seeming eyes and, in a panic, knew that her traitor lips were forming “yes.”

“That would be rather unfortunate, wouldn’t it?” she asked, with a smile.  “You see, it was only an hour ago I promised to marry Mr. Kennaston.”

“Kennaston!” Billy gasped.  “You—­you don’t mean that you care for him, Peggy?”