He found those big dark eyes at last looking at him, and looking at him without anger.  Leonore had stopped on the step above him.

“That shows how foolish you were to go out in the rain,” said Leonore.

“Yes,” said Peter, venturing on the smallest smiles.

Leonore promptly explained the charge in Peter’s “yes.”  “It’s very different,” he was told.  “I put on tips and a mackintosh.  You didn’t put on anything.  And it was pouring torrents.”

“But I’m tough,” said Peter, “A wetting won’t hurt me.”

“So am I,” said Leonore.  “I’ve tramped for hours in the Orkneys, and Sweden and Norway, when it was raining.  But then I was dressed for it.  Go and put on dry clothes at once.”

That was what Peter had intended to do, but he saw his advantage.  “It isn’t worth while,” he said.

“I never heard of such obstinacy,” said Leonore.  “I pity your wife, if you ever get one.  She’ll have an awful time of it.”

Peter did not like that view at all.  But he did not forego at once his hope of getting some compensation out of Leonore’s wish.  So he said:  “It’s too much trouble to change my clothes, but a cup of your tea may keep me from taking cold.”  It was nearly five, o’clock, and Peter was longing for that customary half-hour at the tea-table.

Leonore said in the kindness of her heart, “When you’ve changed your clothes, I’ll make you a cup.”  Then she went upstairs.  When she had reached the second floor, she turned, and leaning over the balustrade of the gallery, said, “Peter.”

“Yes,” said Peter, surveying her from below, and thinking how lovely she was.

Leonore was smiling saucily.  She said in triumph:  “I had my way.  I did get my walk.”  Then she went to her room, her head having a very victorious carriage.

Peter went to his room, smiling.  “It’s a good lawyer,” he told his mirror, “who compromises just enough to make both sides think they’ve won.”  Peter changed his clothes with the utmost despatch, and hurried downstairs to the tea-table.  She was not there!  Peter waited nearly five minutes quietly, with a patience almost colossal.  Then he began to get restless.  He wandered about the room for another two minutes.  Then he became woe-begone.  “I thought she had forgiven me,” he remarked.

“What?” said the loveliest of visions from the doorway.  Most women would have told one that the beauty lay in the Parisian tea-gown.  Peter knew better.  Still, he was almost willing to forgive Leonore the delay caused by the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory.  “And it will take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway,” he thought.

“Hadn’t I better put some rum into it to-day?” he was asked, presently.

“You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs,” said Peter, taking possession of that article.

“But then I can’t put any sugar in.”

“Fingers were made before forks,” suggested Peter.  “You don’t want to give me anything bitter, do you?”