“Never thought of—­”

“That she might not have got it.”

“Now then, Mr. Goward,” I ventured, still speaking very gently, “do you mind telling me what you took that 5.40 train for?”

“Why, because I didn’t get an answer from the letter!” exclaimed Harry, raising his voice for the first time.  “A man doesn’t write a letter such as that more than once in a lifetime.  It was a very important letter.  I told her everything.  I explained everything.  I felt I ought to have a hearing.  If she wanted to throw me over (I don’t deny she had the right to) I would rather she had taken some other way than—­than to ignore such a letter.  I waited for an answer to that letter until quarter-past five.  I just caught the 5.40 train and went to my aunt’s house, the one—­you know my uncle died the other day—­I have been there ever since.  By-the-way, Mrs. Price, if anything else comes up, and if you have any messages for me, I shall be greatly obliged if you will take my address.”

He handed me his card with an up-town street and number, and I snapped it into the inner pocket of my wallet.

“Do you think,” demanded Harry Goward, outright, “that she will ever forgive me, really forgive me?”

“That is for you to find out,” I answered, smiling comfortably; for I could not possibly have Harry think that any of us—­even an unpopular elder sister—­could be there to fling Peggy at the young man’s head.  “That is between you and Peggy.”

“When shall you get home with that letter?” demanded Harry.

“Ask my husband.  At a guess, I should say tomorrow.”

“Perhaps I had better wait until she has read the letter,” mused the boy.  “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Price?”

“I don’t think anything about it.  I will not take any responsibility about it.  I have got the letter officially addressed, and there my errand ends.”

“You see, I want to do the best thing,” urged Harry Goward.  “And so much has happened since I wrote that letter—­and when you come to think that she has never read it—­”

“I will mail it to her,” I said, suddenly.  “I will enclose it with a line and get it off by special delivery this noon.”

“It might not reach her,” suggested Harry, pessimistically.  “Everything seems to go wrong in this affair.”

“Would you prefer to send it yourself?” I asked.

Harry Goward shook his head.

“I would rather wait till she has read it.  I feel, under the circumstances, that I owe that to her.”

Now, at that critical moment, a wide figure darkened the entrance of the writing-room, and, plumping down solidly at another table, spread out a fat, ring-laden hand and began to write a laborious letter.  It was the lady with the three chins.  But the girl with the poodle did not put in an appearance.  I learned afterward that the dog rule of “The Happy Family” admitted of no permits.

Harry Goward and I parted abruptly but pleasantly, and he earnestly requested the privilege of being permitted to call upon me to-morrow morning.