“If it has anything to do with you and Harry Goward, you must tell me, Peggy. You must tell me instantly.”
Peggy put a doughnut on her wedding finger and observed, with pained perplexity, that it would not spin, but stuck.
“What is Charles Edward up to?” I persisted.
The opening rose-bud of Peggy's face took on a furtive expression, like that of certain pansies, or some orchids I have seen. “He is going to take me to Europe,” she admitted, removing both her doughnut rings.
“YOU! To EUROPE!”
“He and Lorraine. When this is blown by. They want to get me away.”
“Away from what? Away from Harry Goward?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” blubbered Peggy.
She now began, in a perfectly normal manner, to mop her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Do you want to be got away from Harry Goward?” I demanded.