But here Marjorie pulled her up.
"How on earth do you know he reads little Latin books?"
Peggy flushed generously.
"Well, if you must know, I gave one teeny weeny peek through the crack in the door after I left him, and he was thrown down across his cot like a long, graceful tomcat or leopard or something, and he pulled a little green leather book out of his pocket and went to reading it on the spot. 'Pervigilium Veneris,' its name was. All down the side."
Marjorie had heard of it; in fact, in pursuance of her education Mr. Logan had made her read several translations of it. It had bored her a little, but she had read it dutifully, because she had felt at that time that it would be nice to be intellectually widened, and because Logan had praised it so highly.
"Oh, yes, I know," she said.
"And is it a holy book?" Peggy inquired.
"Just a long Latin poem about people running around in the woods at night and having a sort of celebration of Venus's birthday," said Marjorie absently. It occurred to her Logan would have been worse shocked if he could have heard her offhand summing-up of his pet poem than he had been by her attitude about going back to New York with him. But she had more important things on her mind than Latin poetry. When Peggy met her she was on her way to go off and think them out.
"Good-night, Peggy," she said. "I'm going to bed. I have to get up early and go to work."
Peggy laughed.