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 quantity 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.

“Ha, ha!” he cried.  “All is discovered.  See!  Here sits Peter Stirling, the ward politician, enthroned in Jeffersonian simplicity.  But here, behind the arras, sits Peter Stirling, the counsellor of banks and railroads, in the midst of all the gorgeousness of the golden East.”  Watts passed into the room beyond.

“What does he mean, Peter?”