She did not see Peter on Friday; caught only a glimpse of him on Saturday, and on Sunday learned, from one of the newspapers, that “Mr. Peter Coleman, who was to have a prominent part in the theatricals to take place at Mrs. Newton Gerald’s home next week, would probably accompany Mr. Forrest Gerald on a trip to the Orient in February, to be gone for some months.”

Susan folded the paper, and sat staring blankly ahead of her for a long time.  Then she went to the telephone, and, half stunned by the violent beating of her heart, called for the Baxter residence.

Burns answered.  Mr. Coleman had gone out about an hour ago with Mr. White.  Burns did not know where.  Mr. Coleman would be back for a seven o’clock dinner.  Certainly, Burns would ask him to telephone at once to Miss Brown.

Excited, troubled, and yet not definitely apprehensive, Susan dressed herself very prettily, and went out into the clear, crisp sunshine.  She decided suddenly to go and see Georgie.  She would come home early, hear from Peter, perhaps dine with him and his uncle and aunt.  And, when she saw him, she would tell him, in the jolliest and sweetest way, that he must make his plans to have their engagement announced at once.  Any other course was unfair to her, to him, to his friends.

If Peter objected, Susan would assume an offended air.  That would subdue him instantly.  Or, if it did not, they might quarrel, and Susan liked the definiteness of a quarrel.  She must force this thing to a conclusion one way or the other now, her own dignity demanded it.  As for Peter, his own choice was as limited as hers.  He must agree to the announcement,—­and after all, why shouldn’t he agree to it?—­or he must give Susan up, once and for all.  Susan smiled.  He wouldn’t do that!

It was a delightful day.  The cars were filled with holiday-makers, and through the pleasant sunshine of the streets young parents were guiding white-coated toddlers, and beautifully dressed little girls were wheeling dolls.

Susan found Georgie moping alone in the big, dark, ugly house; Aggie was out, and Dr. O’Connor and his mother were making their annual pilgrimage to the grave of their husband and father.  The cousins prepared supper together, in Aggie’s exquisitely neat kitchen, not that this was really necessary, but because the kitchen was so warm and pleasant.  The kettle was ticking on the back of the range, a scoured empty milk-pan awaited the milk-man.  Susan contrasted her bright prospects with her cousin’s dull lot, even while she cheerfully scolded Georgie for being so depressed and lachrymose.

They fell to talking of marriage, Georgie’s recent one, Susan’s approaching one.  The wife gave delicate hints, the wife-to-be revealed far more of her secret soul than she had ever dreamed of revealing.  Georgie sat, idly clasping the hands on which the wedding-ring had grown loose, Susan turned and reversed the wheels of a Dover egg-beater.