“Oh, Peter,” she said very gently, “don't you—when you say that—you make me—”
“Please—please go!” cried Peter.
The telephone rang.
“I'll think over the matter of the trip south,” said she, “and—”
“Sue, I want you to go!”
“—and let you know”. I'm not sure but what you're right. If we can do it up here....”
“Good God, Sue! Please! Please!”
She moved slowly toward the door, turned the catch herself, then glanced hesitatingly back.
Peter was standing rigidly before the fire, staring into it. He had picked up the poker and was holding it stiffly in his right hand.
She did not know that the man standing there was not Peter at all, but a very famous personage, shorter than Peter, and stouter, whose name had rung resoundingly down the slope of a hundred years.