"But," interrupted Peter, "I don't think I had met him once before that time, except at the Shrubberies."

"No, he hadn't seen you. But he knew a lot about you, from Mr. Lapharn and Mr. Avery, and some other men who had met you."

"Who else?"

"Miss Leroy, mamma's bridesmaid, who spent two weeks at our villa near Florence, and Dr. Purple, your clergyman, who was in the same house with us at Ober-Ammergau, and--and--oh the best were Mr. and Mrs. Rivington.

They were in Jersey, having their honeymoon. They told me more than all the rest put together."

"I feel quite safe in their hands. Dorothy and I formed a mutual admiration society a good many years ago."

"She and Mr. Rivington couldn't say enough good of you."

"You must make allowance for the fact that they were on their wedding journey, and probably saw everything rose-colored."

"That was it. Dorothy told me about your giving Mr. Rivington a full partnership, in order that Mr. Ogden should give his consent."

Peter laughed.

"Ray swore that he wouldn't tell. And Dorothy has always appeared ignorant. And yet she knew it on her wedding trip."

"She couldn't help it. She said she must tell some one, she was so happy. So she told mamma and me. She showed us your photograph. Papa and mamma said it was like you, but I don't think it is."

Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the man's remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of this dialogue, Peter had had only "come-and-go" glimpses of those eyes.

He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair, and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. For the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that "life isn't all beer and skittles."

"I've been so anxious to meet you. I've begged papa ever since we landed to take me to see you. And he's promised me, over and over again, to do it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very strange and--and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt that I really knew you, and wouldn't have to begin new as I do with other people. I do so dread next winter when I'm to go into society. I don't know what I shall do, I'll not know any one."

"You'll know me."

"But you don't go into society."

"Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next winter. I've shut myself up too much." This was a discovery of Peter's made in the last ten seconds.

"How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of attention?"

"You'll probably want very little. I don't dance." Peter suddenly became conscious that Mr. Weller was right.

"But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing."

Peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with Leonore. Was it possible life had such richness in it? Then he said with a bitter note in his voice very unusual to him:

"I'm afraid I'm too old to learn."

"Not a bit," said Leonore. "You don't look any older than lots of men I've seen valsing. Young men I mean. And I've seen men seventy years old dancing in Europe."

Whether Peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned.

But fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a stable.

"Why," said Leonore, "here we are already! What a short ride it has been."

Peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. But then he suddenly remembered that Leonore was to be lifted from her horse. He became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a military training. He put his hands up, and for a moment had--well, Peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment into words. And it was not merely that Leonore had been in his arms for a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes.

"I wish you would take my horse round to the Riding Club," he told the groom. "I wish to see Miss D'Alloi home."

"Thank you very much, but my maid is here in the brougham, so I need not trouble you. Good-bye, and thank you. Oh, thank you so much!" She stood very close to Peter, and looked up into his eyes with her own. "There's no one I would rather have had save me."

She stepped into the brougham, and Peter closed the door. He mounted his horse again, and straightening himself up, rode away.

"Hi thought," remarked the groom to the stableman, "that 'e didn't know 'ow to sit 'is 'orse, but 'e's all right, arter all. 'E rides like ha 'orse guards capting, w'en 'e don't 'ave a girl to bother 'im."

Would that girl bother him?

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

"FRIENDS."

At first blush, judging from Peter's behavior, the girl was not going to bother him. Peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom, went to his club. There he spent a calm half hour over the evening papers. His dinner was eaten with equal coolness. Not till he had reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. Then, instead of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, put on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of Bock's, and lighting one, settled back in the chair. How many hours he sat and how many cigars he smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make people skeptical of the narrative.

Of course Peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. He was not fooling himself as to what lay before him. He was not callous to the sufferings already endured. But he put them, past, and to come, from him for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face.

He had lately been studying the subject of Asiatic cholera, but he did not seem to be thinking of that. He had just been through what he called a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that.

Whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls.

When Peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "Dear sir," upon it. Then he tore it up. He took another and wrote, "My dear Mr. D'Alloi." He tore that up. Another he began, "Dear Watts." A moment later it was in the paper basket. "My dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the fourth. Then Peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. Finally he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, and, opening a door, put his head in.

"You hypocritical scoundrel," he said. "You swore to me that you would never tell a living soul."

"Well?" came a very guilty voice back.

"And Dorothy's known all this time."

Dead silence.

"And you've both been as innocent as--as you were guilty."

"Look here, Peter, I can't make you understand, because you've--you've never been on a honeymoon. Really, old fellow, I was so happy over your generosity in giving me a full share, when I didn't bring a tenth of the business, and so happy over Dorothy, that If I hadn't told her, I should have simply--bust. She swore she'd never tell. And now she's told you!"

"No, but she told some one else."

"Never!"

"Yes."

"Then she's broken her word. She--"