"Has he a great scar on his cheek?"

"Yes. Have you seen him?"

"Once. Just as we were coming out of the convention. He said something about you to a group of men which called my attention to him." Miss De Voe thought Peter would ask her what it was. "Would you like to know what he said?" she asked, when Peter failed to do so.

"I think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it."

Miss De Voe's mind reverted to her criticism of Peter. "He is so absolutely without our standards." Her chair suddenly ceased to be comfortable. She rose, saying, "Let us go to the library. I shall not show you my pictures now. The gallery is too big to be pleasant such a night. You must come again for that. Won't you tell me about some of the other men you are meeting in politics?" she asked when they had sat down before another open fire. "It seems as if all the people I know are just alike--I suppose it's because we are all so conventional--and I am very much interested in hearing about other kinds."

So Peter told about Dennis and Blunkers, and the "b'ys" in the saloons; about Green and his fellow delegates; about the Honorable Mr., Mrs., and Miss Gallagher, and their dinner companions. He did not satirize in the least. He merely told various incidents and conversations, in a sober, serious way; but Miss De Voe was quietly amused by much of the narrative and said to herself, "I think he has humor, but is too serious-minded to yield to it." She must have enjoyed his talk for she would not let Peter go early, and he was still too ignorant of social usages to know how to get away, whether a woman wished or no. Finally he insisted that he must leave when the clock pointed dangerously near eleven.

"Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, in a doubtful, "won't-you-please"

voice, such as few men had ever heard from her, "I want you to let me send you home? It will only take a moment to have the carriage here."

"I wouldn't take a horse out in such weather," said Peter, in a very settling kind of voice.

"He's obstinate," thought Miss De Voe. "And he makes his obstinacy so dreadfully--dreadfully p.r.o.nounced!" Aloud she said: "You will come again?"

"If you will let me."

"Do. I am very much alone too, as perhaps you know?" Miss De Voe did not choose to say that her rooms could be filled nightly and that everywhere she was welcome.

"No. I really know nothing about you, except what you have told me, and what I have seen."

Miss De Voe laughed merrily at Peter's frankness. "I feel as if I knew all about you," she said.

"But you have asked questions," replied Peter.

Miss De Voe caught her breath again. Try as she would, she could not get accustomed to Peter. All her social experience failed to bridge the chasm opened by his speech. "What did he mean by that plain statement, spoken in such a matter-of-fact voice?" she asked herself. Of course the pause could not continue indefinitely, and she finally said: "I have lived alone ever since my father's death. I have relatives, but prefer to stay here. I am so much more independent. I suppose I shall have to move some day. This part of the city is beginning to change so." Miss De Voe was merely talking against time, and was not sorry when Peter shook hands, and left her alone.

"He's very different from most men," she said to the blazing logs. "He is so uncomplimentary and outspoken! How can he succeed in politics?

Still, after the conventional society man he is--he is--very refreshing.

I think I must help him a little socially."

CHAPTER XXVII.

A DINNER.

The last remark made by Miss De Voe to her fire resulted, after a few days, in Peter's receiving a formal dinner invitation, which he accepted with a promptness not to be surpa.s.sed by the best-bred diner-out. He regretted now his vamping of the old suit. Peter understood that he was in for quite another affair than the Avery, the Gallagher, or even the Purple dinner. He did not worry, however, and if in the dressing-room he looked furtively at the coats of the other men, he entirely forgot the subject the moment he started downstairs, and thought no further of it till he came to take off the suit in his own room.

When Peter entered the drawing-room, he found it well filled with young people, and for a moment a little of the bewildered feeling of four years before came over him. But he found himself chatting with Miss De Voe, and the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. In a moment he was introduced to a "Miss Lenox," who began talking in an easy way which gave Peter just as much or as little to say as he chose. Peter wondered if many girls were as easy to talk to as--as--Miss Lenox.

He took Miss De Voe in, and found Dorothy Ogden sitting on his other side. He had barely exchanged greetings with her, when he heard his name spoken from across the table, and looking up, he found Miss Leroy sitting opposite.

"I hope you haven't entirely forgotten me," that girl said, the moment his attention was caught.

"Not at all," said Peter.

"Nor my dress," laughed Miss Leroy.

"I remember the style, material, and train."

"Especially the train I am sure."

"Do explain these mysterious remarks," said Dorothy.

"Mr. Stirling and I officiated at a wedding, and I was in such mortal terror lest some usher should step on my gown, that it became a joke."

"Whose wedding was that?" asked Miss De Voe.

"Miss Pierce's and Watts D'Alloi's," said the bridesmaid.

"Do you know Watts D'Alloi?" exclaimed Miss De Voe to Peter.

"Yes."

"Indeed! When?"

"At college."

"Are you a Harvard man?"

"Yes."

"You were Mr. D'Alloi's chum, weren't you?" said Miss Leroy.

"Yes."

"Watts D'Alloi?" again exclaimed Miss De Voe.

"Yes."

"But he's a mere boy."

"He's two years my senior."

"You don't mean it?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were over thirty."

"Most people do."