Talbert. What we said I leave you to imagine. I have always thought her
the truest and tenderest woman in the world, but I never knew till that
night just how clear-headed and brave she was. She agreed with me that
Peggy's affair, up to now more or less foolish, though distressing, had
now reached a dangerous stage, a breaking-point. The child was
overwrought. A wrong touch now might wreck her altogether. But the
right touch? Or, rather, no touch at all, but just an open door before
her? Ah, that was another matter. My plan was a daring one; it made her
tremble a little, but perhaps it was the best one; at all events, she
could see no other. Then she stood up and gave me both hands again. "I
will trust you, my friend," said she. "I know that you love us and our
children. You shall do what you think best and I will be satisfied.
Good-night."
The difficulty with the situation, as I looked it over carefully while
indulging in a third cigar in my bedroom, was that the time was
desperately short. It was now one o'clock on Tuesday morning. About
nine Cyrus would perform his sacred duty of crushing his darling Peggy
by telling her that she must stay in Eastridge. At ten o'clock on
Saturday the Chromatic would sail with Charles Edward and Lorraine and
Stillman Dane. Yet there were two things that I was sure of: one was
that Peggy ought to go with them, and the other was that it would be
good for her to--but on second thought I prefer to keep the other thing
for the end of my story.
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