He was courteous enough to conceal his slight surprise at my visit, but not skilful enough to disguise his interest in hearing that I had just come from the Talberts.  I told him of the agreement with Cyrus Talbert, the subsequent conversation with Mrs. Talbert, Peggy’s drive with me to Whitman, and her views upon dandies and other cognate subjects.

Then I explained to him quite clearly what I should conceive my duty to be if I were in his place.  He assented warmly to my view.  I added that if there were any difficulties in his mind I should advise him to lay the case before my dear friend the Reverend George Alexanderson, of the Irving Place Church, who was an extraordinarily sensible and human clergyman, and to whom I would give him a personal letter stating the facts.  Upon this we shook hands heartily, and I went back to Peggy on Thursday morning.

The house was delightfully quiet, and she was perfection as a hostess.  I never passed a pleasanter afternoon.  But the evening was interrupted by the arrival of Stillman Dane, who said that he had run up to say good-bye.  That seemed quite polite and proper, so I begged them to excuse me, while I went into the den to write some letters.  They were long letters.

The next morning Peggy was evidently flustered, but divinely radiant.  She said that Mr. Dane had asked her to go driving with him—­would that be all right?  I told her that I was sure it was perfectly right, but if they went far they would find me gone when they returned, for I had changed my mind and was going down to New York to see the voyagers off.  At this Peggy looked at me with tears sparkling in the edge of her smile.  Then she put her arms around my neck.  “Good-bye,” she whispered, “good-bye!  You’re A dandy too!  Give mother my love—­and that—­and that—­and that!”

“Well, my dear,” I answered, “I rather prefer to keep those for myself.  But I’ll give her your message.  And mind this—­don’t you do anything unless you really want to do it with all your heart.  God bless you!  Promise?”

“I promise, with all my heart,” said she, and then her soft arms were unloosed from my neck and she ran up-stairs.  That was the last word I heard from Peggy Talbert.

On Saturday morning all the rest of us were on the deck of the Chromatic by half-past nine.  The usual farewell performance was in progress.  Charles Edward was expressing some irritation and anxiety over the lateness of Stillman Dane, when that young man quietly emerged from the music-room, with Peggy beside him in the demurest little travelling suit with an immense breast-plate of white violets.  Tom Price was the first to recover his voice.

“Peggy!” he cried; “Peggy, by all that’s holy!”

“Excuse me,” I said, “Mr. and Mrs. Stillman Dane!  And I must firmly request every one except Mr. and Mrs. Talbert, senior, to come with me at once to see the second steward about the seats in the dining-saloon.”