Collingwood laughed.
"Oh, don't laugh, Colling!" she continued—"please don't laugh at me—but I remember she did tell me—yes—that she broke her right arm sleighing when she was a girl, and that she is almost ambidextrous. It has only just come back to me. She told me many years ago."
Collingwood jumped up from the table alert and excited.
"That is something—by Jove! it is," he cried. "Tell me, where is she?"
"She has only gone upstairs for a moment," Peggy said. "I am expecting her down every moment."
"By the way, Peggy," Collingwood asked, "where does she write her letters and things when she is here with you?"
"She always writes there," Peggy answered, pointing to the table, "where you have been sitting."
"Look here," Collingwood said decisively, "when she comes, leave her alone with me. I'll do what I can. I'll tackle her. You had better not be here at all."
"But, Colling, can't I help?" Peggy asked. "I think I might be of use, though of course it will be dreadfully unpleasant. But, for my own sake, I must stick at nothing now."
"No, Peggy," he replied firmly. "I feel I can manage this much better myself. Look here—you go out upon the terrace again. I will just come with you and settle you in your chair—how tired you look!—and then a mauvais quart d'heure for Alice, if she ever had one in her life."