He got an awful look from those eyes.  They were perfectly blazing with indignation.

“Stop holding me,” she repeated.

It was a fearful moment to Peter.  But he said, with an appeal in his voice, “You know I suffer in offending you.  I did not believe that I could touch you without your consent.  But your health is dearer to me than your anger is terrible.  You must come home.”

So Leonore, realizing that helplessness in a man exists only by his own volition, turned, and began walking towards the now distant house.  Peter at once released her arm, and walked beside her.  Not a glimpse did he get of those dear eyes.  Leonore was looking directly before her, and a grenadier could not have held himself straighter.  If insulted dignity was to be acted in pantomime, the actor could have obtained some valuable points from that walk.

Peter walked along, feeling semi-criminal, yet semi-happy.  He had saved Leonore from an early grave, and that was worth while doing.  Then, too, he could look at her, and that was worth while doing.  The run had made Leonore’s cheeks blaze, as Peter’s touch had made her eyes.  The rain had condensed in little diamonds on her stray curls, and on those long lashes.  It seemed to Peter that he had never seen her lovelier.  The longing to take her in his arms was so strong, that he almost wished she had refused to return.  But then Peter knew that she was deeply offended, and that unless he could make his peace, he was out of favor for a day at least.  That meant a very terrible thing to him.  A whole day of neglect; a whole day with no glimpse of these eyes; a whole day without a smile from those lips!

Peter had too much sense to say anything at once.  He did not speak till they were back in the hall.  Leonore had planned to go straight to her room, but Peter was rather clever, since she preceded him, in getting to the foot of the staircase so rapidly that he was there first.

This secured him his moment for speech.  He said simply:  “Miss D’Alloi, I ask your forgiveness for offending you.”

Leonore had her choice of standing silent, of pushing passed Peter, or of speaking.  If she had done the first, or the second, her position was absolutely impregnable.  But a woman’s instinct is to seek defence or attack in words rather than actions.  So she said:  “You had no right, and you were very rude.”  She did not look at Peter.

“It pained me far more than it could pain you.”

Leonore liked Peter’s tone of voice, but she saw that her position was weakening.  She said, “Let me by, please.”

Peter with reluctance gave her just room to pass.  He felt that he had not said half of what he wished, but he did not dare to offend again.

As it turned out, it was the best thing he could do, for the moment Leonore had passed him, she exclaimed, “Why!  Your coat’s wringing wet.”

“That’s nothing,” said Peter, turning to the voice.