To which Peter, after a week’s interval, answered briefly: 

 Dear Susan: 

 This fuss about the pin gives me a pain.  I gave a dozen
  gifts handsomer than that, and nobody else seems to be kicking.

 Be a good girl, and Love the Giver.  Peter.

This ended the correspondence.  Susan put the pin away in the back of her bureau-drawer, and tried not to think about the matter.

January was cold and dark.  Life seemed to be made to match.  Susan caught cold from a worn-out overshoe, and spent an afternoon and a day in bed, enjoying the rest from her aching head to her tired feet, but protesting against each one of the twenty trips that Mary Lou made up and downstairs for her comfort.  She went back to the office on the third day, but felt sick and miserable for a long time and gained strength slowly.

One rainy day, when Peter Coleman was alone in Mr. Brauer’s office, she took the little jeweler’s box in and laid it beside him on the desk.

“This is all darn foolishness!” Peter said, really annoyed.

“Well—–­” Susan shrugged wearily, “it’s the way I feel about it.”

“I thought you were more of a sport!” he said impatiently, holding the box as if he did not quite know what to do with it.

“Perhaps I’m not,” Susan said quietly.  She felt as if the world were slowly, dismally coming to an end, but she stood her ground.

An awkward silence ensued.  Peter slipped the little box into his pocket.  They were both standing at his high desk, resting their elbows upon it, and half-turned, so that they faced each other.

“Well,” he said, discontentedly, “I’ve got to give you something or other for Christmas.  What’ll it be?”

“Nothing at all, Peter,” Susan protested, “just don’t say anything more about it!”

He meditated, scowling.

“Are you dated for to-morrow night?” he asked.

“Yes,” Susan said simply.  The absence of explanation was extremely significant.

“So you’re not going out with me any more?” he asked, after a pause.

“Not—­for awhile,” Susan agreed, with a little difficulty.  She felt a horrible inclination to cry.

“Well, gosh, I hope somebody is pleased at the trouble she has made!” Peter burst out angrily.

“If you mean Auntie, Peter,” indignation dried Susan’s tears, “you are quite mistaken!  Anyway, she would be quite right not to want me to accept expensive gifts from a man whose position is so different from my own—–­”

“Rot!” said Peter, flushing, “that sounds like servants’ talk!”

“Well, of course I know it is nonsense—–­” Susan began.  And, despite her utmost effort, two tears slipped down her cheeks.

“And if we were engaged it would be all right, is that it?” Peter said, after an embarrassed pause.

“Yes, but I don’t want you to think for one instant—–­” Susan began, with flaming cheeks.