"That's nothing," said Peter, turning to the voice.

He found those big dark eyes at last looking at him, and looking at him without anger. Leonore had stopped on the step above him.

"That shows how foolish you were to go out in the rain," said Leonore.

"Yes," said Peter, venturing on the smallest smiles.

Leonore promptly explained the charge in Peter's "yes." "It's very different," he was told. "I put on tips and a mackintosh. You didn't put on anything. And it was pouring torrents."

"But I'm tough," said Peter, "A wetting won't hurt me."

"So am I," said Leonore. "I've tramped for hours in the Orkneys, and Sweden and Norway, when it was raining. But then I was dressed for it.

Go and put on dry clothes at once."

That was what Peter had intended to do, but he saw his advantage. "It isn't worth while," he said.

"I never heard of such obstinacy," said Leonore. "I pity your wife, if you ever get one. She'll have an awful time of it."

Peter did not like that view at all. But he did not forego at once his hope of getting some compensation out of Leonore's wish. So he said: "It's too much trouble to change my clothes, but a cup of your tea may keep me from taking cold." It was nearly five, o'clock, and Peter was longing for that customary half-hour at the tea-table.

Leonore said in the kindness of her heart, "When you've changed your clothes, I'll make you a cup." Then she went upstairs. When she had reached the second floor, she turned, and leaning over the bal.u.s.trade of the gallery, said, "Peter."

"Yes," said Peter, surveying her from below, and thinking how lovely she was.

Leonore was smiling saucily. She said in triumph: "I had my way. I did get my walk." Then she went to her room, her head having a very victorious carriage.

Peter went to his room, smiling. "It's a good lawyer," he told his mirror, "who compromises just enough to make both sides think they've won." Peter changed his clothes with the utmost despatch, and hurried downstairs to the tea-table. She was not there! Peter waited nearly five minutes quietly, with a patience almost colossal. Then he began to get restless. He wandered about the room for another two minutes. Then he became woe-begone. "I thought she had forgiven me," he remarked.

"What?" said the loveliest of visions from the doorway. Most women would have told one that the beauty lay in the Parisian tea-gown. Peter knew better. Still, he was almost willing to forgive Leonore the delay caused by the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory. "And it will take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway," he thought.

"Hadn't I better put some rum into it to-day?" he was asked, presently.

"You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs," said Peter, taking possession of that article.

"But then I can't put any sugar in."

"Fingers were made before forks," suggested Peter. "You don't want to give me anything bitter, do you?"

"You deserve it," said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers, and dropped them in the cup.

"I can't wait five years!" thought Peter, "I can't wait five months--weeks--days--hours--minutes--sec----"

Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here. "h.e.l.lo! Here you are.

How cosy you look. I tried to find you both a few minutes ago, but thought you must have gone to walk after all. Here, Peter. Here's a special delivery letter, for which I receipted a while ago. Give me a cup, Dot."

Peter said, "Excuse me," and, after a glance at the envelope, opened the letter with a sinking sensation. He read it quickly, and then reached over and rang the bell. When the footman came, Peter rose and said something in a low voice to him. Then he came back to his tea.

"Nothing wrong, I hope," asked Watts.

"Yes. At least I am called back to New York," said Peter gloomily.

"Bother," said Watts. "When?"

"I shall leave by the night express."

"Nonsense. If it was so important as that, they'd have wired you."

"It isn't a matter which could be telegraphed."

"What is it, Peter?" said Leonore, putting her finger in.

"It's confidential."

So Leonore did not ask again. But when the tea was finished, and all had started upstairs, Leonore said, "Peter," on the landing. When Peter stopped, she whispered, "Why are you going to New York?"

"I can't tell you," said Peter.

"Yes, you can, now that papa isn't here."

"No."

"Yes. I know it's politics, and you are to tell me."

"It isn't politics."

"Then what is it?"

"You really want to know?"

"Of course."

"It's something really confidential."

Leonore gave Peter one look of insulted dignity, and went upstairs to her room. "He's different," she said. "He isn't a bit afraid of displeasing me any more. I don't know what to do with him."

Peter found Jenifer waiting. "Only pack the grip," he said. "I hope to come back in a few days." But he looked very glum, and the glumness stuck to him even after he had dressed and had descended to dinner.

"I am leaving my traps," he told Mrs. D'Alloi. "For I hope to be back next week."

"Next week!" cried Watts. "What has been sprung on you that will take you that long?"

"It doesn't depend on me, unfortunately," said Peter, "or I wouldn't go."

When the carriage was announced later, Peter shook hands with Watts and Mrs. D'Alloi, and then held out his hand to Leonore. "Good-bye," he said.

"Are you going to tell me why you are going?" said that young lady, with her hands behind her, in the prettiest of poses.

"No."