"Miss D'Alloi," said Peter.

"No. You--are--to--call--me--call--me--"

"Miss D'Alloi," re-affirmed Peter.

"Then I will call you Mr. Stirling, Peter."

"No, you won't."

"Why?"

"Because you said you'd call me Peter."

"But not if you won't--"

"You made no condition at the time of promise. Shall I show you the law?"

"No. And I shall not call you Peter, any more, Peter."

"Then I shall prosecute you."

"But I should win the case, for I should hire a friend of mine to defend me. A man named Peter." Leonore sat down in Peter's chair. "I'm going to write him at once about it." She took one of his printed letter sheets and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her lips (Peter has that pen still), thought for a moment. Then she wrote:

DEAR PETER:

I am threatened with a prosecution. Will you defend me? Address your reply to "Dear Leonore."

LEONORE D'ALLOI.

"Now" she said to Peter, "you must write me a letter in reply. Then you can have this note." Leonore rose with the missive in her hand.

"I never answer letters till I've received them." Peter took hold of the slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. Then he sat down at his desk and wrote on another sheet:

DEAR MISS D'ALLOI:

I will defend you faithfully and always.

PETER STIRLING

"That isn't what I said," remarked Miss D'Alloi. "But I suppose it will have to do."

"You forget one important thing."

"What is that?"

"My retaining fee."

"Oh, dear," sighed Leonore. "My allowance is nearly gone. Don't you ever do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?"

"Not if their poverty is pretence."

"Oh, but mine isn't. Really. See. Here is my purse. Look for yourself.

That's all I shall have till the first of the month."

She gave Peter her purse. He was still sitting at his desk, and he very deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. He handled each article. There was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. There were two one-dollar bills. There was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters and a dime. A gold German twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove b.u.t.ton, completed the contents. Peter returned the American money and the glove b.u.t.ton to the purse and handed it back to Miss D'Alloi.

"You've forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece," said Leonore.

"You were never more mistaken in your life," replied Peter, with anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. He folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat pocket.

"Oh," said Leonore, "I can't let you have that That's my luck-piece."

"Is it?" Peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his tone.

"Yes. You don't want to take my good luck."

"I will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later.

"Please!" Miss D'Alloi pleaded.

"That is just what I have succeeded in doing--for myself."

"But I want my luck-piece. I found it in a crack of the rocks crossing the Ghemi. And I must have the ribbon. I need it to match for a gown it goes with." Miss D'Alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she really felt.

"I shall be glad to help you match it," said Peter, "and any time you send me word, I will go shopping with you. As for your luck, I shall keep that for the present."

"Now I know," said Leonore crossly, "why lawyers have such a bad reputation. They are perfect thieves!" She looked at Peter with the corners of her mouth drawn down. He gazed at her with a very grave look on his face. They eyed each other steadily for a moment, and then the corners of Leonore's mouth suddenly curled upwards. She tried hard for a moment to keep serious. Then she gave up and laughed. Then they both laughed.

Many people will only see an amusing side to the dialogue here so carefully recorded. If so, look back to the time when everything that he or she said was worth listening to. Or if there has never been a he or a she, imitate Peter, and wait. It is worth waiting for.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

THE HERMITAGE.

It is not to be supposed from this last reflection of ours, that Leonore was not heart-whole. Leonore had merely had a few true friends, owing to her roving life, and at seventeen a girl craves friends. When, therefore, the return to America was determined upon, she had at once decided that Peter and she would be the closest of friends. That she would tell him all her confidences, and take all her troubles to him.

Miss De Voe and Dorothy had told her about Peter, and from their descriptions, as well as from her father's reminiscences, Leonore had concluded that Peter was just the friend she had wanted for so long.

That Leonore held her eyes down, and tried to charm yet tantalize her intended friend, was because Leonore could not help it, being only seventeen and a girl. If Leonore had felt anything but a friendly interest and liking, blended with much curiosity, in Peter, she never would have gone to see him in his office, and would never have talked and laughed so frankly with him.

As for Peter, he did not put his feelings into good docketed shape. He did not attempt to label them at all. He had had a delicious half-hour yesterday. He had decided, the evening before, that he must see those slate-colored eyes again, if he had to go round the world in pursuit of them. How he should do it, he had not even thought out, till the next morning. He had understood very clearly that the owner of those slate-colored eyes was really an unknown quant.i.ty to him. He had understood, too, that the chances were very much against his caring to pursue those eyes after he knew them better. But he was adamant that he must see those eyes again, and prove for himself whether they were but an _ignis fatuus_, or the radiant stars that Providence had cast for the horoscope of Peter Stirling. He was studying those eyes, with their concomitants, at the present time. He was studying them very coolly, to judge from his appearance and conduct. Yet he was enjoying the study in a way that he had never enjoyed the study of somebody "On Torts."

Somebody "On Torts," never looked like that. Somebody "On Torts," never had luck-pieces, and silk ribbons. Somebody "On Torts," never wrote letters and touched the end of pens to its lips. Somebody "On Torts,"

never courtesied, nor looked out from under its eyelashes, nor called him Peter.

While this investigation had been progressing, Watts had looked at the shelf of law books, had looked out of the window, had whistled, and had yawned. Finally, in sheer _ennui_ he had thrown open a door, and looked to see what lay beyond.