There was nothing appealing in the way it was said.  It seemed a mere statement of a fact.  Yet something in the voice gave it the character of a command.

“’Nough said, chum,” said Watts, feeling a little cheap at his smallness in having tried to rob Peter of his farewell.  The next moment he was rapidly overtaking the advance-party.

By all conventions there should have been an embarrassing pause after this extraordinary colloquy, but there was not.  When Peter decided to do a thing, he never faltered in the doing.  If making love or declaring it had been a matter of directness and plain-speaking, Peter would have been a successful lover.  But few girls are won by lovers who carry business methods and habits of speech into their courtship.

“Miss Pierce,” said Peter, “I could not go without thanking you for your kindness to me.  I shall never forget this week.”

“I am so glad you have enjoyed it,” almost sang Miss Pierce, in her pleasure at this reward for her week of self-sacrifice.

“And I couldn’t go,” said Peter, his clear voice suddenly husking, “without telling you how I love you.”

“Love me!” exclaimed Miss Pierce, and she brought the walk again to a halt, in her surprise.

“Yes,” replied Peter simply, but the monosyllable meant more than the strongest protestations, as he said it.

“Oh,” almost cried his companion, “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” said Peter; “I don’t want it to be a sorrow to you.”

“But it’s so sudden,” gasped Miss Pierce.

“I suppose it is,” said Peter, “but I love you and can’t help telling it.  Why shouldn’t one tell one’s love as soon as one feels it?  It’s the finest thing a man can tell a woman.”

“Oh, please don’t,” begged Miss Pierce, her eyes full of tears in sympathy for him.  “You make it so hard for me to say that—­that you mustn’t”

“I really didn’t think you could care for me—­as I cared for you,” replied Peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last speech.  “Girls have never liked me.”

Miss Pierce began to sob.  “It’s all a mistake.  A dreadful mistake,” she cried, “and it is my fault.”

“Don’t say that,” said Peter, “It’s nothing but my blundering.”

They walked on in silence to the Shrubberies, but as they came near to the glare of the lighted doorway, Peter halted a moment.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that it could ever be different?”

“No,” replied Miss Pierce.

“Because, unless there is—­is some one else,” continued Peter, “I shall not——­”

“There is,” interrupted Miss Pierce, the determination in Peter’s voice frightening her info disclosing her secret.

Peter said to himself, “It is Watts after all.”  He was tempted to say it aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so.  But he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman.  Instead he said, “Thank you.”  Then he braced himself, and added:  “Please don’t let my love cause you any sorrow.  It has been nothing but a joy to me.  Good-night and good-bye.”