The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a final inspiration.

“Get me my smelling-salts, dear,” she said to her husband; “I think they’re in the dressing-room.”

Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so long during the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed within measurable distance.

Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness.

“A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn’t happened. Peter’s little weakness; it runs in the family.”

“Good Lord! Do you mean to say he’s a kleptomaniac, like Cousin Snatcher?”