I have been over and I have done it.  I have taken the “management” of the whole thing—­not even discouraged by this unfortunate word.  I own I am rather raw to it.  But the time has come when, though I bled beneath it, I must act as if I didn’t.  At all events I must act. ...  I have acted.  I am going to New York by the early morning express—­the 7.20.  I would go to-night-in fact, I really ought to go to-night.  But Tom has a supper “on” with some visitors to the Works.  He won’t be home till late, and I can’t go without seeing Tom.  It would hurt his feelings, and that is a thing no wife ought to do, and my kind of wife can’t do.

I found the house in its usual gelatinous condition.  There wasn’t a back-bone in it, scarcely an ankle-joint to stand upon:  plenty of crying, but no thinking; a mush of talk, but no decision.  To cap the situation, Charles Edward has gone on to New York with a preposterous conviction that he can clear it up. . . .  Charles Edward!  If there is a living member of the household—­But never mind that.  This circumstance was enough for me, that’s all.  It brought out all the determination in me, all the manager, if you choose to put it so.

I shall go to New York myself and take the whole thing in hand.  If I needed anything to padlock my purpose those dozen words with Peggy would have turned the key upon it.  When I found that she wasn’t crying; when I got face to face with that soft, fine excitement in the eyes which a girl wears when she has a love-affair, not stagnant, but in action—­I concluded at once that Peggy had her reservations and was keeping something from me.  On pretence of wanting a doughnut I got her into the pantry and shut both doors.

“Peggy,” I said, “what has Charles Edward gone to New York for?  Do you know?”

Peggy wound a big doughnut spinning around her engagement finger and made no reply.

“If it has anything to do with you and Harry Goward, you must tell me, Peggy.  You must tell me instantly.”

Peggy put a doughnut on her wedding finger and observed, with pained perplexity, that it would not spin, but stuck.

“What is Charles Edward up to?” I persisted.

The opening rose-bud of Peggy’s face took on a furtive expression, like that of certain pansies, or some orchids I have seen.  “He is going to take me to Europe,” she admitted, removing both her doughnut rings.

“You!  To Europe!”

“He and Lorraine.  When this is blown by.  They want to get me away.”

“Away from what?  Away from Harry Goward?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” blubbered Peggy.

She now began, in a perfectly normal manner, to mop her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Do you want to be got away from Harry Goward?” I demanded.

“I never said I did,” sobbed Peggy.  “I never said so, not one little bit.  But oh, Maria!  Moolymaria!  You can’t think how dreadful it is to be a girl, an engaged girl, and not know what to do!”