"Yes," she assented. "But I had so much to ask you, Peggy, and so much to tell."
The curtains parted again, this time far above Peggy's head, and I saw a man's eyes peering through. She appeared to be disengaging the flounces about her slippered feet, but I saw her strike back savagely with her little heel, and he disappeared. But other faces came, one by one, though Letitia did not see them. Her eyes were all for her darling Peggy whom she plied with questions. How had her health been? How did she like New York? Did she never yearn for little old Grassy Ford again? Was she quite happy?
"Yes," Peggy murmured, "quite; quite happy."
She spoke in a hurried, staccato voice, in an odd, cold monotone. There was no kindness in her eyes.
The door-bell rang, and we stepped aside as the maid answered it. Two young men swaggered in, flushed and garrulous, nodding, not more familiarly to the servant than to Peggy herself, who parted the curtains to let them pass. They gazed curiously at her guests.
"Why, they kept on their hats!" Letitia said, in a shocked undertone. "Is it customary here, Peggy?"
"Everything," was the bitter answer, "is customary here. How is my mother?"
"It was your mother, Peggy, who asked me to find you." Letitia spoke, gently. "She wants to see you. She is not very strong since your father's—"
She paused.