ours, Peter. I stole it from you. I copied it into
those letters. I'm not straight. I'm not fair. I wasn't honest with her.
I wasn't honest with you. I'll just have to take off front the top of
the highest mountain or sink in the deepest place in the sea, Peter.
I thought I was straight. I thought I was honorable I have made Donald
believe that I was. If I have to tell him the truth about this he won't
want to wear my flower any more. I shall know all the things that Marian
has suffered, and a thousand times worse, because she was not to blame;
she had nothing with which to reproach herself."

Peter put an arm across Linda's shoulders and drew her up to him. For a
long, bitter moment he thought deeply, and then he said hoarsely: "Now
calm down, Linda. You're making an extremely high mountain out of an
extremely shallow gopher hole. You haven't done anything irreparable.
I see the whole situation. You are sure your friend has finally refused
this offer she has had on account of these letters you have written?"

Suddenly Linda relaxed. She leaned her warm young body against Peter.
She laid her tired head on his shoulder. She slipped the top letter of
the packet in her lap from under its band, opened it, and held it before
him. Peter read it very deliberately, then he nodded in acquiescence.

"It's all too evident," he said quietly, "that you have taught her that
there is a man in this world more to her liking than John Gilman ever
has been. When it came to materializing the man, Linda, what was your
idea? Were you proposing to deliver me?"

"I thought it would be suitable and you would be perfectly happy,"
sobbed Linda, "and that way I could have both of you."

"And Donald also?" asked Peter lightly.

"Donald of course," assented Linda.

And then she lifted her tear-spilling, wonderful eyes, wide open, to
Peter's, and demanded: "But, oh Peter, I am so miserable I am almost
dead. I have said you were a rock, and you are a rock. peter, can you
get me out of this?"

"Sure," said Peter grimly. "Merely a case of living up to your blue
china, even if it happens to be in the form of hieroglyphics instead of
baked pottery. Give me the letters, Linda. Give me a few days to study
them. Exchange typewriters with me so I can have the same machine. Give
me some of the paper on which you have been writing and the address you
have been using, and I'll guarantee to get you out of this in some way
that will leave you Donald, and y