That night, in Lady Blixworth's conservatory, she had refused the hand of Mr. Stapleton-Staines (son of that Sir Stapleton who had an estate bordering on Barslett, and had agreed with Lord Barmouth that you could not touch pitch without being defiled), and she drove home with hardly a regret at having thrown away the prospect of being a county gentlewoman. She was no more than wondering gently if there were any attractions at all about the life. She had also the feeling of a good evening's work, not disturbed in the least degree by the expression of Lady Blixworth's face when she and Mr. Staines parted at the door of the conservatory, and Mr. Staines took scowling leave of his hostess. She lay back in her cab, smiling at the world.
On her doorstep sat two gentlemen in opera hats and long brown coats. They were yawning enormously, and had long ceased any effort at conversation. They had the street to themselves save for a draggled-looking woman who wandered aimlessly about on the other side of the road, a policeman who seemed to have his eye on the woman and on them alternately, and a wagon laden with vegetables that ground its way along to the market. Peggy's hansom drove up. The two men jumped joyfully to their feet and assumed expressions of intense disgust; the policeman found something new to watch; the draggled woman turned her head towards the house and stood looking on.
'Punctual as usual!' said Miles Childwick encouragingly. 'Eleven to the moment!'
The clock of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, struck 12.30.
'Here's the key,' said Peggy helpfully. 'Have you half a crown, Tommy?'
'I have a florin, and it's three-quarters of a mile.'
Peggy looked defiant for a minute; then she gave a funny little laugh. 'All right,' said she.
They went in. The policeman yawned and resumed his stroll; the woman, after a moment's hesitation, walked slowly round the corner and down towards the Strand.
Arrived upstairs, Peggy darted at the table; a telegram lay there. She tore it open.
'What church?' asked Childwick resignedly.
'When?' inquired Tommy, who was busy with soda-water.
'6.45,' answered Peggy, consulting the stamp on the telegram.
'They might have waited till the hour struck,' remarked Childwick in a disgusted tone.