"The other subscriber," she replied. "Didn't you guess?"
"What!" I said. "You, Letitia?"
She smiled sadly.
"Poor little man!"
VII
SUZANNE
I
t was evening when we set out, not without trepidation, to find Peggy Neal. We had dined—over-dined—in a room of gilt and mirrors and shining silver, watching the other tables with their smiling groups or puzzling pairs; some so ill-assorted that we strove vainly to solve their mystery, others so oddly mannered for a public place, we thought—the men so brazen in their attentions, the women so prinked and absurdly gowned and unabashed, Letitia at first was not quite sure we were rightly there.