'Who is it?' asked Peggy. 'Wake up, George. Who's this?'
'Sorry,' he said. 'I was thinking about something.'
'I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?'
'Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George.'
'I noticed that,' said Rutherford, smiling. 'Charming ones, too.'
'Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!'
She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met.
'She would say,' said Rutherford, slowly: '"I know you love me, and I know I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to your telling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear, good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be great pals!"'
'She'd say that, would she?' said Peggy, at last.
Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford.
'You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?'
'George, she's a pretty good long way away, isn't she?'
She looked up at him with a curious light in her grey eyes. Rutherford met her glance steadily.
'Not to me,' he said. 'She's here now, and all the time.'
He stepped away and picked up the sheaf of papers which he had dropped at Peggy's entrance. Peggy laughed.
'Good night, Georgie boy,' she said. 'I mustn't keep you up any more, or you'll be late in the morning. And what would the bank do then? Smash or something, I guess. Good night, Georgie! See you again one of these old evenings.'
The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, and then move quickly on once more.
He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became an understood thing between them that she should look in on her return from the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when she was late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, but the experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and rather overpoweringly refined, and conversation became forced. After that, Peggy came alone.
Generally she found him working. His industry amazed her.
'Gee, George,' she said one night, sitting in her favourite place on the table, from which he had moved a little pile of manuscript to make room for her. 'Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me you write all the time.'