The portiéres before which Peggy stood, one hand grasping them, parted suddenly behind her head, and the face of another girl was thrust out rudely behind her own and staring into mine. It was a rouged and powdered face, with hard-set eyes that did not flinch as she gazed mockingly upon me, crying in a voice that filled the hall with its harsh discords:
"Aha! Which one to-night, Suzanne?"
Then she saw Letitia, and with a smothered oath, withdrew laughingly. The music and talking ceased within. It was not in the room behind the curtains, but seemingly just beyond it, and I could hear her there relating her discovery as I supposed, though the words were indistinct.
"How I hate that girl!" hissed Peggy, her eyes black with anger.
"Then I wouldn't have her, my dear," said Letitia, soothingly. "I should not invite her."
There was a burst of laughter within, followed by subdued voices, and I heard footsteps stealthily approaching. Peggy heard them too, no doubt, though she was answering Letitia's questions, for she grasped the curtains more tightly than before, one hand behind her and the other above her head. As she did so the loose sleeves of her robe slipped down her arm, disclosing a spot upon its whiteness.
"Peggy, dear," Letitia said, anxiously, "you have hurt yourself."
"Yes," was the answer, "I know. It's a bruise."
It was a heart, tattooed. She hid it in her hair.
"We must go, Letitia," I urged. "We must not keep Peggy from her friends."