Scotch, Doctor Palmer, is a whiskey. Spellings aside.

[ uh-oh. she puts 'ray' back on the shelf with any other possible familiarity and endearment and instead goes straight for the heart of a formal complaint. but, having thrust the tool box unto him, she retreats by a step.

but in the wake of her near-violence, she's left watching him. it's a clumsy mistake. was he only babbling? or was his bit about scotch and cigar mere bravado -- was there some convention, some joke, to which she wasn't privy?

whatever's gone wrong -- whatever's prompted him to talk about boy's clubs and suggest that she'd be more comfortable if miss lance was also in attendance -- peggy cares less about the source and more about what's to be done in its wake.

with a churlish huff, she adds: ] And I'll have you know I'm quite fine without the invitation. Whether it was made out of pity or -- or otherwise.

[ it's what she lands upon. pity. and she lashes out for it, too, although she's got no proof apart from the quiet offer ray made over cupcakes that she could come to him if she ever needed to talk with someone. somehow, she'd managed to twist his assurance over sara's presence into something similar.

she resents it. ]