"Thank you, Philip," said Peggy quietly: one had almost said listlessly. She was very white. She sank down into the chair again, and Philip released her hands. "And now," he said with great energy, "I'll go out and look for a cab for you. There's a fearful fog outside, and there is no saying when Tim will turn up. In any case you can't stay here till the milkman calls. I will see if I can find some kind of fiery chariot for you. I suppose I can't offer you a whiskey-and-soda?"--pointing to the tray on the table. "I'll take a little soda-water, please," replied Peggy faintly. She lay back gazing silently into the fire until her host supplied her needs. Then she spoke again, in her old steady, clear tones:-- "You are a good sort, Philip. You ought to marry some day: you are wasted at present. And when you pick a wife, show her to me first, and I will see you're not imposed on." "Taxi?" interposed Philip, almost roughly. "I'm not particular," said Peggy. "You had better be quick, though, because I am going to explore this room and meddle with all your--" But Philip had gone. * * * * * Presently Peggy rose to her feet and began to wander round the room. She arrived at the bookcase. "_Engineering_--seven bound volumes. That's not very exciting. Rudyard Kipling"--surveying a long row: "that's better. He loves him, I know. Stevenson, Jacobs, Wells." She took down a green volume. "'The Country of the Blind.' So _that's_ where you were brought up, _mon ami_!" Peggy restored the book to its place with a quavering little laugh, and turned to the table. Then she stopped dead. Before her, in the circle of light formed by the rays of the lamp, lay a letter--a bulky letter, ready for post. It was addressed to herself. CHAPTER XXXI THE ELEVENTH HOUR "_This Week's Society Problem_," mused Peggy. "_A, an unsophisticated young spinster, finding herself alone in the residence of B, an eligible bachelor acquaintance, notices upon B's dining-room table a letter in B's handwriting, addressed to herself and stamped for post._ Problem: _What should A do?_ Answer adjudged correct: _Leave the letter where it is and wait until the postman delivers it._ Answer adjudged incorrect: _Open the letter and read it_." A minute later the seal was broken and Peggy was composedly extracting the folded sheets. "I'm afraid I never did have the instincts of a real lady," she said. "But perhaps the postman would never have delivered this letter. I will salve my conscience by picking off the stamp and saving him a penny." She did so. Then, sitting down to the table and drawing the lamp a little nearer, she smoothed out the crackling pages and began to read.