It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left the restaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young men drawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries are supplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggy was for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused to countenance such an anti-climax. Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and there was silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway. He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistful and fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her up and crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix his thoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man of honour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened till every muscle of his arm was rigid. The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner. Her hand fell on his. 'Peggy!' he cried, hoarsely. Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his arms were round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses. The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence, and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force of habit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot of the stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole. Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, something seemed to snap inside him. He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at the envelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that left him physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of a trance. With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a few steps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read the meaning now in the grey eyes. 'Good night, Peggy,' he said in a low voice. She turned, facing him, and for a moment neither moved. 'Good night!' said Rutherford again. Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing. Then she turned again, and began to walk slowly upstairs. He stood watching her till she had reached the top of the long flight. She did not look back. 5 Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on the table troubled Rutherford no more. His restlessness left him. He began to write with a new vigour and success. In after years he wrote many plays, most of them good, clear-cut pieces of work, but none that came from him with the utter absence of labour which made the writing of _Willie in the Wilderness_ a joy. He wrote easily, without effort. And always Peggy was there, helping, stimulating, encouraging. Sometimes, when he came in after dinner to settle down to work, he would find a piece of paper on his table covered with her schoolgirl scrawl. It would run somewhat as follows: