"Bring some tea at once," Pauline said in a low voice to the footman.
Then she turned to Peggy. "Madame," she said in a voice full of pain, "do compose yourself. You will be very ill if you go on like this."
Peggy's face was dangerously flushed. Her eyes glittered, her hands clasped and unclasped themselves.
"That letter!" she cried. "That fiendish letter! Who could have sent it? What devil planned that trap?"
Lady Attwill shrugged her shoulders. "Anonymous—take no notice," she said.
Peggy turned on her like a whirlwind. "Don't be absurd, Alice!" she cried. "It was sent before we left London. Who knew we should go to Paris? Who knew that we should stay at the Tuileries?"
Pauline was hovering round her mistress with a face that was all anxiety, with hands that trembled to touch and soothe. "Remember, madame," she said, "it was sent to your aunt. Very funny that! She has never liked you, that grim old lady!"
"Why did she dislike me?" Peggy said petulantly.
"Madame, you were gay, happy—like sunbeams. Your old aunt lived in the shadows. She is a dour old maid."
"I don't see what she has to do with it," Peggy answered. "The letter was written by some one who knew that we were going to stay in Paris, and even where we were going to stay."