“Yes, Tawney-eye,” said Leonore, in heartrending tones, “it isn’t a good day at all.”

“I’m going to quarrel with you on that,” said Peter.  “It’s a glorious day.”

Leonore rose from the skin.  “Tawney-eye and I don’t think so.”

“But you will.  In the first place I’ve explained about the monopoly and the photographs to your mamma, and she says she did not understand it, and that no one is to blame.  Secondly, she says I’m to stay to dinner and am to monopolize you till then.  Thirdly, she says we may be just as good friends as we please.  Fourthly, she has asked me to come and stay for a week at Grey-Court this summer.  Now, what kind of a day is it?”

“Simply glorious!  Isn’t it, Tawney-eye?” And the young lady again forgot her “papas, proprieties, potatoes, prunes and prisms,” and dropping down on the rug, buried her face in the cat’s long silky hair.  Then she reappeared long enough to say: 

“You are such a comforting person!  I’m so glad you were born.”

CHAPTER XLV.

THE BOSS.

After this statement, so satisfying to both, Leonore recovered her dignity enough to rise, and say, “Now, I want to pay you for your niceness.  What do you wish to do?”

“Suppose we do what pleases you.”

“No.  I want to please you.”

“That is the way to please me,” said Peter emphatically.

Just then a clock struck four.  “I know,” said Leonore.  “Come to the tea-table, and we’ll have afternoon tea together.  It’s the day of all others for afternoon tea.”

“I just said it was a glorious day.”

“Oh? yes.  It’s a nice day.  But it’s dark and cold and rainy all the same.”

“But that makes it all the better.  We shan’t be interrupted.”

“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that Miss De Voe told me once that you were a man who found good in everything, and I see what she meant.”

“I can’t hold a candle to Dennis.  He says its ‘a foine day’ so that you feel that it really is.  I never saw him in my life, when it wasn’t ’a foine day.’  I tell him he carries his sunshine round in his heart.”

“You are so different,” said Leonore, “from what every one said.  I never knew a man pay such nice compliments.  That’s the seventh I’ve heard you make.”

“You know I’m a politician, and want to become popular.”

“Oh, Peter!  Will you let me ask you something?”

“Anything,” said Peter, rashly, though speaking the absolute truth.  Peter just then was willing to promise anything.  Perhaps it was the warm cup of tea; perhaps it was the blazing logs; perhaps it was the shade of the lamp, which cast such a pleasant rosy tint over everything; perhaps it was the comfortable chair; perhaps it was that charming face; perhaps it was what Mr. Mantalini called the “demd total.”

“You see,” said Leonore, shaking her head in a puzzled way, “I’ve begun to read the papers—­the political part, I mean—­and there are so many things I don’t understand which I want to ask you to explain.”