"No," cried Miss De Voe. "Oh, won't you please? It's no trouble. I'll not order much."

"Nothing, thank you," said Peter.

"Just a chop or--"

Peter held out his hand.

"No, no. Sit down. Of course you are to do as you please. But I should be so happy if--?" and Miss De Voe looked at Peter appealingly.

"No. Thank you."

"Nothing, Morden." They sat down again. "Why didn't you dine?" asked Miss De Voe.

"I didn't care to face the storm."

"Yet you came out?"

"Yes. I got blue, and thought it foolish to stay indoors by myself."

"I'm very glad you came here. It's a great compliment to find an evening with me put above dinner. You know I had the feeling that you didn't like me."

"I'm sorry for that. It's not so."

"If not, why did you insist on my twice asking you to call on me?"

"I did not want to call on you without being sure that you really wished to have me."

"Then why wouldn't you stay and dine at Saratoga?"

"Because my ticket wouldn't have been good."

"But a new ticket would only cost seven dollars."

"In my neighborhood, we don't say 'only seven dollars.'"

"But you don't need to think of seven dollars."

"I do. I never have spent seven dollars on a dinner in my life."

"But you should have, this time, after making seven hundred and fifty dollars in one month. I know men who would give that amount to dine with me." It was a foolish brag, but Miss De Voe felt that her usual means of inspiring respect were not working,--not even realized.

"Very likely. But I can't afford such luxuries. I had spent more than usual and had to be careful."

"Then it was economy?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea my dinner invitations would ever be held in so little respect that a man would decline one to save seven dollars." Miss De Voe was hurt. "I had given him five hundred dollars," she told herself, "and he ought to have been willing to spend such a small amount of it to please me." Then she said; "A great many people economize in foolish ways."

"I suppose so," said Peter. "I'm sorry if I disappointed you. I really didn't think I ought to spend the money."

"Never mind," said Miss De Voe. "Were you pleased with the nomination and election of Catlin?"

"I was pleased at the election, but I should have preferred Porter."

"I thought you tried to prevent Porter's nomination?"

"That's what the papers said, but they didn't understand."

"I wasn't thinking of the papers. You know I heard your speech in the convention."

"A great many people seem to have misunderstood me. I tried to make it clear."

"Did you intend that the convention should laugh?"

"No. That surprised and grieved me very much!"

Miss De Voe gathered from this and from what the papers had said that it must be a mortifying subject to Peter, and knew that she ought to discontinue it. But she could not help saying, "Why?"

"It's difficult to explain, I'm afraid. I had a feeling that a man was trying to do wrong, but I hoped that I was mistaken. It seemed to me that circ.u.mstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, but I was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. Yet the moment I told them they laughed."

"Why?"

"Because they felt sure that the man had done wrong."

"Oh!" It was a small exclamation, but the expression Miss De Voe put into it gave it a big meaning. "Then they were laughing at Maguire?"

"At the time they were. Really, though, they were laughing at human weakness. Most people seem to find that amusing."

"And that is why you were grieved?"

"Yes."

"But why did the papers treat you so badly?"

"Mr. Costell tells me that I told too much truth for people to understand. I ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain right out, for then they would have understood. A friend of--a fellow I used to know, said I was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and I'm afraid it's true."

"Do you know Costell? I thought he was such a dishonest politician?"

"I know Mr. Costell. I haven't met the dishonest politician yet."

"You mean?"

"He hasn't shown me the side the papers talk about."

"And when he does?"

"I shall be very sorry, for I like him, and I like his wife." Then Peter told about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, and about the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself from putting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who had told about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. "He had his cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and he speaks of it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a child."