Beatrice’s only answer was to fold Peggy in a passionate embrace. Then, as the latter left the room, she threw herself on the divan, her slender form racked with sobs.
As Peggy crossed the square hall on her way to the front door, she came face to face with the Attorney General’s secretary. Alfred Clark, who was putting on his overcoat, greeted her effusively.
“Oh, good afternoon,” she replied, a trifle coldly; for his obsequious manner always grated on her.
“Can I see you home?” asked Clark, eagerly, opening the front door as he spoke.
“You are very kind, but I am going to catch the car at the corner, and I wouldn’t think of taking you so far out of your way.”
“On the contrary, it is right in the direction I am going,” rejoined Clark, helping Peggy down the slippery steps. “I was so sorry not to see you when I called last Sunday,” he continued, as they turned to walk in the direction of Connecticut Avenue. “I thought you always stayed at home that day?”
“I usually do; but last Sunday I went down to the station to see a friend off, so missed all my callers. Gracious! there’s our car. Do stop it.”
Obediently Clark ran ahead and signalled the motorman to wait until Peggy could get there. But once inside the car they had no further chance for conversation, for Clark, jostled by the crowd, was obliged to stand some distance from Peggy, who had been given a seat further up. On transferring to the G Street herdic they found they had that antiquated vehicle entirely to themselves.
“How do you think Miss Trevor is looking?” inquired Clark, after he had stuffed the transfers into the change box by the driver’s seat.
“She seems utterly used up, poor dear,” answered Peggy, soberly. “I am afraid the strain is telling on her more than she will admit.”