“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 & 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 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.