"A man is not bound to incriminate himself," replied Peter, smiling.

"Then that's the reason why you don't like society, and why you are so untalkative to women. I don't like men who think badly of women. Now, I want to know why you don't like them?"

"Supposing," said Peter, "you were asked to sit down to a game of whist, without knowing anything of the game. Do you think you could like it?"

"No. Of course not!"

"Well, that is my situation toward women. They have never liked me, nor treated me as they do other men. And so, when I am put with a small-talk woman, I feel all at sea, and, try as I may, I can't please her. They are never friendly with me as they are with other men."

"Rubbish!" said Dorothy. "It's what you do, not what she does, that makes the trouble. You look at a woman with those grave eyes and that stern jaw of yours, and we all feel that we are fools on the spot, and really become so. I never stopped being afraid of you till I found out that in reality you were afraid of me. You know you are. You are afraid of all women."

"He isn't a bit afraid of women," affirmed Leonore.

Just then Mr. Beekman came up. "Er--Mrs. Rivington. You know this is--er--a sort of house-warming, and they tell me we are to go over the house, don't you know, if we wish. May I harve the pleasure?"

Dorothy conferred the boon. Peter looked down at Leonore with a laugh in his eyes. "Er--Miss D'Alloi," he said, with the broadest of accents, "you know this,--er--is a sort of a house-warming and--" He only imitated so far and then they both laughed.

Leonore rose. "With pleasure. I only wish Mrs. Grinnell had heard you. I didn't know you could mimic?"

"I oughtn't. It's a small business. But I am so happy that I couldn't resist the temptation."

Leonore asked, "What makes you so happy?"

"My new friend," said Peter.

Leonore went on up the stairs without saying anything. At the top, however, she said, enthusiastically: "You do say the nicest things! What room would you like to see first?"

"Yours," said Peter.

So they went into the little bedroom, and boudoir, and looked over them.

Of course Peter found a tremendous number of things of interest. There were her pictures, most of them her own purchases in Europe; and her books and what she thought of them; and her thousand little knick-knacks of one kind and another. Peter wasn't at all in a hurry to see the rest of the house.

"These are the photographs of my real friends," said Leonore, "except yours. I want you to give me one to complete my rack."

"I haven't had a photograph taken in eight years, and am afraid I have none left."

"Then you must sit."

"Very well. But it must be an exchange." Peter almost trembled at his boldness, and at the thought of a possible granting.

"Do you want mine?"

"Very much."

"I have dozens," said Leonore, going over to her desk, and pulling open a drawer. "I'm very fond of being taken. You may have your choice."

"That's very difficult," said Peter, looking at the different varieties.

"Each has something the rest haven't. You don't want to be generous, and let me have these four?"

"Oh, you greedy!" said Leonore, laughing. "Yes, if you'll do something I'm going to ask you."

Peter pocketed the four. "That is a bargain," he said, with a brashness simply disgraceful in a good business man. "Now, what is it?"

"Miss De Voe told me long ago about your savings-bank fund for helping the poor people. Now that I have come into my money, I want to do what she does. Give a thousand dollars a year to it--and then you are to tell me just what you do with it."

"Of course I'm bound to take it, if you insist. But it won't do any good. Even Miss De Voe has stopped giving now, and I haven't added anything to it for over five years."

"Why is that?"

"You see, I began by loaning the fund to people who were in trouble, or who could be boosted a little by help, and for three or four years, I found the money went pretty fast. But by that time people began to pay it back, with interest often, and there has hardly been a case when it hasn't been repaid. So what with Miss De Voe's contributions, and the return of the money, I really have more than I can properly use already.

There's only about eight thousand loaned at present, and nearly five thousand in bank."

"I'm so sorry!" said Leonore. "But couldn't you give some of the money, so that it wouldn't come back?"

"That does more harm than good. It's like giving opium to kill temporary pain. It stops the pain for the moment, but only to weaken the system so as to make the person less able to bear pain in the future.

That's the trouble with most of our charity. It weakens quite as much as it helps."

"I have thought about this for five years as something I should do. I'm so grieved." And Leonore looked her words.

Peter could not stand that look. "I've been thinking of sending a thousand dollars of the fund, that I didn't think there was much chance of using, to a Fresh Air fund and the Day Nursery. If you wish I'll send two thousand instead and then take your thousand? Then I can use that for whatever I have a chance."

"That will do nicely. But I thought you didn't think regular charities did much good?"

"Some don't. But it's different with children. They don't feel the stigma and are not humiliated or made indolent by help. We can't do too much to help them. The future of this country depends on its poor children. If they are to do right, they must be saved from ill-health, and ignorance, and vice; and the first step is to give them good food and air, so that they shall have strong little bodies. A sound man, physically, may not be a strong man in other ways, but he stands a much better chance."

"Oh, it's very interesting," said Leonore. "Tell me some more about the poor people."

"What shall I tell you?" said Peter.

"How to help them."

"I'll speak about something I have had in mind for a long time, trying to find some way to do it. I think the finest opportunity for benevolence, not already attempted, would be a company to lend money to the poor, just as I have attempted, on a small scale, in my ward. You see there are thousands of perfectly honest people who are living on day wages, and many of them can lay up little or no money. Then comes sickness, or loss of employment, or a fire which burns up all their furniture and clothes, or some other mischance, and they can turn only to p.a.w.nbrokers and usurers, with their fearful charges; or charity, with its shame. Then there are hundreds of people whom a loan of a little money would help wonderfully. This boy can get a place if he had a respectable suit of clothes. Another can obtain work by learning a trade, but can't live while he learns it. A woman can support herself if she can buy a sewing-machine, but hasn't the money to buy it. Another can get a job at something, but is required to make a deposit to the value of the goods intrusted to her. Now, if all these people could go to some company, and tell their story, and get their notes discounted, according to their reputation, just as the merchant does at his bank, don't you see what a help it would be?"

"How much would it take, Peter?"

"One cannot say, because, till it is tested, there would be no way of knowing how much would be asked for. But a hundred thousand dollars would do to start with."

"Why, that's only a hundred people giving a thousand each," cried Leonore eagerly. "Peter, I'll give a thousand, and I'll make mamma and papa give a thousand, and I'll speak to my friends and--"

"Money isn't the difficult part," said Peter, longing to a fearful degree to take Leonore in his arms. "If it were only money, I could do it myself--or if I did not choose to do it alone, Miss De Voe and Pell would help me."

"What is it, then?"

"It's finding the right man to run such a company. I can't give the time, for I can do more good in other directions. It needs a good business man, yet one who must have many other qualities which rarely go with a business training. He must understand the poor, because he must look into every case, to see if it is a safe risk--or rather if the past life of the applicant indicates that he is ent.i.tled to help. Now if your grandfather, who is such an able banker, were to go into my ward, and ask about the standing of a man in it, he wouldn't get any real information. But if I ask, every one will tell me what he thinks. The man in control of such a bank must be able to draw out the truth. Unless the management was just what it ought to be, it would be bankrupt in a few months, or else would not lend to one quarter of the people who deserve help. Yet from my own experience, I know, that money can be loaned to these people, so that the legal interest more than pays for the occasional loss, and that most of these losses are due to inability, more than to dishonesty."

"I wish we could go on talking," sighed Leonore. "But the people are beginning to go downstairs. I suppose I must go, so as to say good-bye.

I only wish I could help you in charity."

"You have given _me_ a great charity this evening," said Peter.