with a wan smile: "But, dearest mother, you forget. I'm
an old, old married woman."

"Besides, my dear," said the Dean, "Peggy has often gone away by
herself."

"But never to London," said Mrs. Conover.

"Anyhow, I've got to go." Peggy turned to the old butler. "Ring up
Sturrocks's and tell them I'm coming."

"Yes, miss," said Burford.

"He's as bad as you are, mother," said Peggy.

So she went up to London and stayed the night at Sturrocks's alone,
for the first time in her life. She half ate a lonely, execrable war
dinner in the stuffy, old-fashioned dining-room, served ceremoniously
by the ancient head waiter, the friend of her childhood, who, in view
of her recent widowhood, addressed her in the muffled tones of the
sympathetic undertaker. Peggy nearly cried. She wished she had chosen
another hotel. But where else could she have gone? She had stayed at
few hotels in London: once at the Savoy; once at Claridge's; every
other time at Sturrocks's. The Savoy? Its vastness had frightened her.
And Claridge's? No; that was sanctified for ever. Oliver in his lordly
way had snapped his fingers at Sturrocks's. Only the best was good
enough for Peggy. Now only Sturrocks's remained.

She sought her room immediately after the dreary meal and sat before
the fire--it was a damp, chill February night--and thought miserable
and aching thoughts. It happened to be the same room which she had
occupied, oh--thousands of years ago--on the night when Doggie,
point-device in new Savile Row uniform, had taken her to dinner at the
Carlton. And she had sat, in the same imitation Charles the Second
brocaded chair, looking into the same generous, old-fashioned fire,
thinking--thinking. And she remembered clenching her fist and
apostrophizing the fire and crying out aloud: "Oh, my God! if only he
makes good!"

Oceans of years lay between then and now. Doggie had made good; every
man who came home wounded must have made good. Poor old Doggie. But
how in the name of all that was meant by the word Love she could ever
have contemplated--as she had contemplated, with an obstinate,
virginal loyalty--marriage with Doggie, she could not understand.

She undressed, brought the straight-backed chair close to the fire,
and, in her dainty nightgown, part of her trousseau, sat elbow on
knee, face in thin, clutching hands, slippered feet on fender,
thinking, thinking once again. Thinking now of the gates of Paradise
that had opened to her for a fe