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."