“Oh, surely!” Susan hastened to reassure her.  Nothing could have been less to her liking than any festivity involving the O’Connors just now.  Susan had dined at the gloomy Mission Street house once, and retained a depressing memory of the dark, long parlor, with only one shutter opened in the bay window, the grim elderly hostess, in mourning, who watched Georgie incessantly, the hard-faced elderly maid, so obviously in league with her mistress against the new-comer, and the dinner that progressed from a thick, sad-looking soup to a firm, cold apple pie.  There had been an altercation between the doctor and his mother on the occasion of Susan’s visit because there had been no fire laid in Georgie’s big, cold, upstairs bedroom.  Susan, remembering all this, could very readily excuse Georgie from the exercise of any hospitality whatever.

“Don’t give it another thought, Georgie!” said she.

“There’ll be entertaining enough, soon!” said Mary Lou.

“But we aren’t going to announce it for ever so long!” Susan said.

“Please, please don’t tell anyone else, Auntie!” she besought over and over again.

“My darling, not for the world!  I can perfectly appreciate the delicacy of feeling that makes you wish to leave all that to Peter!  And who knows?  Only ourselves, and Billy, who is as close to you as a dear brother could be, and Joe—–­”

“Oh, is Georgie going to tell Joe?” Susan asked, dismayed.

“Well, now, perhaps she won’t,” Mrs. Lancaster said soothingly.  “And I think you will find that a certain young gentleman is only too anxious to tell his friends what a lovely girl he has won!” finished Auntie archly.

Susan was somehow wretchedly certain that she would find nothing of the kind.  As a matter of fact, it chanced to be a week when she had no engagements made with Peter, and two days went by—­three—­and still she did not hear from him.

By Thursday she was acutely miserable.  He was evidently purposely avoiding her.  Susan had been sleeping badly for several nights, she felt feverish with anxiety and uncertainty.  On Thursday, when the girls filed out of the office at noon, she kept her seat, for Peter was in the small office and she felt as if she must have a talk with him or die.  She heard him come into Front Office the moment she was alone, and began to fuss with her desk without raising her eyes.

“Hello!” said Peter, sitting on a corner of the desk.  “I’ve been terribly busy with the Gerald theatricals, and that’s why you haven’t seen me.  I promised Mary Gerald two months ago that I’d be in ’em, but by George! she’s leaving the whole darn thing to me!  How are you?”

So gay, so big, so infinitely dear!  Susan’s doubts melted like mist.  She only wanted not to make him angry.

“I’ve been wondering where you were,” she said mildly.

“And a little bit mad in spots?” queried Peter.

“Well—–­” Susan took firm grip of her courage.  “After our little talk on Saturday,” she reminded him, smilingly.