"You mean the photographs," smiled Leonore.

"No."

"What else?"

"You have shown me the warmest and most loving of hearts," said Peter, "and that is the best charity in the world."

On the way down they met Lispenard coming up. "I've just said good-night to your mother. I would have spoken to you while we were in your room, but you were so engrossed that Miss Winthrop and I thought we had better not interrupt."

"I didn't see you," said Leonore.

"Indeed!" said Lispenard, with immense wonderment. "I can't believe that. You know you were cutting us." Then he turned to Peter. "You old scamp, you," he whispered, "you are worse than the Standard Oil."

"I sent for you some time ago, Leonore," said her mother, disapprovingly. "The guests have been going and you were not here."

"I'm sorry, mamma. I was showing Peter the house."

"Good-night," said that individual. "I dread formal dinners usually, but this one has been the pleasantest of my life."

"That's very nice. And thank you, Peter, for the bracelet, and the flowers, and the compliment. They were all lovely. Would you like a rose?"

Would he? He said nothing, but he looked enough to get it.

"Can't we put you down?" said a man at the door. "It's not so far from Washington Square to your place, that your company won't repay us."

"Thank you," said Peter, "but I have a hansom here."

Yet Peter did not ride. He dismissed cabby, and walked down the Avenue.

Peter was not going to compress his happiness inside a carriage that evening. He needed the whole atmosphere to contain it.

As he strode along he said:

"It isn't her beauty and grace alone"--(It never is with a man, oh, no!)--"but her truth and frankness and friendliness. And then she doesn't care for money, and she isn't eaten up with ambition. She is absolutely untouched by the world yet. Then she is natural, yet reserved, with other men. She's not husband-hunting, like so many of them. And she's loving, not merely of those about her, but of everything."

Musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited variations.

This was what Peter proceeded to do. From Fifty-seventh Street to Peter's rooms was a matter of four miles. Peter had not half finished his thematic treatment of Leonore when he reached his quarters. He sat down before his fire, however, and went on, not with hope of exhausting all possible variations, but merely for his own pleasure.

Finally, however, he rose and put photographs, rose, and card away.

"I've not allowed myself to yield to it," he said (which was a whopper) "till I was sure she was what I could always love. Now I shall do my best to make her love me."

CHAPTER XLIV.

A GOOD DAY.

The next day it was raining torrents, but despite this, and to the utter neglect of his law business, Peter drove up-town immediately after lunch, to the house in Fifty-seventh Street. He asked for Watts, but while he was waiting for the return of the servant, he heard a light foot-step, and turning, he found Leonore fussing over some flowers. At the same moment she became conscious of his presence.

"Good-day," said Peter.

"It isn't a good day at all," said Leonore, in a disconsolate voice, holding out her hand nevertheless.

"Why not?"

"It's a horrid day, and I'm in disgrace."

"For what?"

"For misbehaving last night. Both mamma and madame say I did very wrong.

I never thought I couldn't be real friends with you." The little lips were trembling slightly.

Peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. "Why can't the women let such an innocent child alone?" he thought to himself. Aloud he said, "If any wrong was done, which I don't think, it was my fault. Can I do anything?"

"I don't believe so," said Leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her voice. "They say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won't permit it for a moment."

Peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: "I am so sorry they blame you. If I could only save you from it." He evidently said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle.

"You see," said Leonore, "I've always been very particular with men, but with you it seemed different. Yet they both say I stayed too long upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. They said I ought to treat you like other men. Don't you think you are different?"

Yes. Peter thought he was very different.

"Mr. D'Alloi will see you in the library," announced the footman at this point.

Peter turned to go, but in leaving he said: "Is there any pleasure or service I can do, to make up for the trouble I've caused you?"

Leonore put her head on one side, and looked a little less grief-stricken. "May I save that up?" she asked.

"Yes."

A moment later Peter was shaking hands with Watts.

"This is nice of you. Quite like old times. Will you smoke?"

"No. But please yourself. I've something to talk about."

"Fire away."

"Watts, I want to try and win the love of your little girl."

"Dear old man," cried Watts, "there isn't any one in G.o.d's earth whom I would rather see her choose, or to whom I would sooner trust her."

"Thank you, Watts," said Peter, gratefully. "Watts is weak, but he is a good fellow," was his mental remark. Peter entirely forgot his opinion of two weeks ago. It is marvellous what a change a different point of view makes in most people.

"But if I give you my little Dot, you must promise me one thing."