“Hadn’t I better put some rum into it to-day?” he was asked, presently.
“You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs,” said Peter, taking possession of that article.
“But then I can’t put any sugar in.”
“Fingers were made before forks,” suggested Peter. “You don’t want to give me anything bitter, do you?”
“You deserve it,” said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers, and dropped them in the cup.
“I can’t wait five years!” thought Peter, “I can’t wait five months—weeks—days—hours—minutes—sec—— ”
Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here. “Hello! Here you are. How cosy you look. I tried to find you both a few minutes ago, but thought you must have gone to walk after all. Here, Peter. Here’s a special delivery letter, for which I receipted a while ago. Give me a cup, Dot.”
Peter said, “Excuse me,” and, after a glance at the envelope, opened the letter with a sinking sensation. He read it quickly, and then reached over and rang the bell. When the footman came, Peter rose and said something in a low voice to him. Then he came back to his tea.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” asked Watts.
“Yes. At least I am called back to New York,” said Peter gloomily.