Ah! her cousin, Peter Brome, was a man indeed, though a strange one, and
remembering certain things that did not please her, she shrugged her
ivory shoulders, turned red, and pouted. Why, that Spaniard had said
more civil words to her in an hour than had Peter in two years, and he
was handsome and noble-looking also; but then the Spaniard was--a
Spaniard, and other men were--other men, whereas Peter was--Peter, a
creature apart, one who cared as little for women as he did for trade.

Why, then, if he cared for neither women nor trade, did he stop here?
she wondered. To gather wealth? She did not think it; he seemed to have
no leanings that way either. It was a mystery. Still, she could wish to
get to the bottom of Peter's heart, just to see what was hid there,
since no man has a right to be a riddle to his loving cousin. Yes, and
one day she would do it, cost what it might.

Meanwhile, she remembered that she had never thanked Peter for the brave
part which he had played, and, indeed, had left him to walk home with
Betty, a journey that, as she gathered from her sprightly cousin's talk
while she undressed her, neither of them had much enjoyed. For Betty, be
it said here, was angry with Peter, who, it seemed, once had told her
that she was a handsome, silly fool, who thought too much of men and too
little of her business. Well, since after the day's work had begun she
would find no opportunity, she would go down and thank Peter now, and
see if she could make him talk for once.

So Margaret threw her fur-trimmed cloak about her, drawing its hood over
her head, for the April air was cold, and followed Peter into the
garden. When she reached it, however, there was no Peter to be seen,
whereon she reproached herself for having come to that damp place so
early and meditated return. Then, thinking that it would look foolish if