“You deserve it,” said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers, and dropped them in the cup.

“I can’t wait five years!” thought Peter, “I can’t wait five months—­weeks—­days—­hours—­minutes—­sec——­”

Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here.  “Hello!  Here you are.  How cosy you look.  I tried to find you both a few minutes ago, but thought you must have gone to walk after all.  Here, Peter.  Here’s a special delivery letter, for which I receipted a while ago.  Give me a cup, Dot.”

Peter said, “Excuse me,” and, after a glance at the envelope, opened the letter with a sinking sensation.  He read it quickly, and then reached over and rang the bell.  When the footman came, Peter rose and said something in a low voice to him.  Then he came back to his tea.

“Nothing wrong, I hope,” asked Watts.

“Yes.  At least I am called back to New York,” said Peter gloomily.

“Bother,” said Watts.  “When?”

“I shall leave by the night express.”

“Nonsense.  If it was so important as that, they’d have wired you.”

“It isn’t a matter which could be telegraphed.”

“What is it, Peter?” said Leonore, putting her finger in.

“It’s confidential.”

So Leonore did not ask again.  But when the tea was finished, and all had started upstairs, Leonore said, “Peter,” on the landing.  When Peter stopped, she whispered, “Why are you going to New York?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Peter.

“Yes, you can, now that papa isn’t here.”

“No.”

“Yes.  I know it’s politics, and you are to tell me.”

“It isn’t politics.”

“Then what is it?”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“It’s something really confidential.”

Leonore gave Peter one look of insulted dignity, and went upstairs to her room.  “He’s different,” she said.  “He isn’t a bit afraid of displeasing me any more.  I don’t know what to do with him.”

Peter found Jenifer waiting.  “Only pack the grip,” he said.  “I hope to come back in a few days.”  But he looked very glum, and the glumness stuck to him even after he had dressed and had descended to dinner.

“I am leaving my traps,” he told Mrs. D’Alloi.  “For I hope to be back next week.”

“Next week!” cried Watts.  “What has been sprung on you that will take you that long?”

“It doesn’t depend on me, unfortunately,” said Peter, “or I wouldn’t go.”

When the carriage was announced later, Peter shook hands with Watts and Mrs. D’Alloi, and then held out his hand to Leonore.  “Good-bye,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me why you are going?” said that young lady, with her hands behind her, in the prettiest of poses.

“No.”

“Then I shan’t say good-bye.”

“I cannot tell you,” said Peter, quietly; “please say good-bye.”