His future conduct did not trouble her in the least.  She had long since become convinced that Willits would never again become intemperate.  He had kept his promise, and this meant more to her than his having given way to past temptations.  The lesson he had learned at the ball had had, too, its full effect.  One he had never forgotten.  Over and over again he had apologized to her for his brutal insolence in laying his profane hands on her dancing-card and tearing it to bits before her eyes.  He had, moreover, deeply regretted the duel and had sworn to her on his honor as a gentleman that he would never fight another.

Each time she had listened quietly and had told him how much she was pleased and how grateful she was for his confidence and how such fine resolutions redounded to his credit, and yet in thinking it over the next day she could not help comparing his meek outbursts of sorrow with Harry’s blunt statement made to her the last time she saw him in the park, when, instead of expressing any regret for having shot Willits, he had boldly declared that he would do it again if any such insult were repeated.  And strange to say—­and this she could not understand in herself—­in all such comparisons Harry came out best.

But:—­and here she had to hold on to her rudder with all her might—­she had already made one mistake, tumbling head over heels in love with a young fellow who had mortified her before the world when their engagement was less than a few months old, making her name and affections a byword, and she could not and would not repeat the blunder.  This had shattered her customary self-reliance, leaving her wellnigh helpless.  Perhaps after all—­an unheard-of thing in her experience—­she had better seek advice of some older and wiser pilot.  Two heads, or even three—­(here her canny Scotch blood asserted itself)—­were better than one in deciding so important a matter as the choosing of a mate for life.  And yet—­now she came to think it over—­it was not so much a question of heads as it was a question of shoulders on which the heads rested.  To turn to St. George, or to any member of the Willits kin, was impossible.  Peggy’s views she understood.  Counsel, however, she must have, and at once.

Suddenly an inspiration thrilled her like an electric shock—­one that sent the blood tingling to the very roots of her hair.  Why had she not thought of it before!  And it must be in the most casual way—­quite as a matter of general conversation, he doing all the talking and she doing all the listening, for on no account must he suspect her purpose.

Within the hour she had tied the ribbons of her wide leghorn hat under her dimpled chin, picked up her shawl, and started off alone, following the lane to the main road.  If the judge, by any chance, had adjourned court he would come straight home and she would meet him on the way.  If he was still engaged in the dispensation of justice, she would wait for him outside.