Leonore found her “hard” policy harder than she thought for.  She told Peter the first evening that she was going to a card-party.  “I can’t take you,” she said.

“I shall be all the better for a long night’s sleep,” said Peter, calmly.

This was bad enough, but the next morning, as she was arranging the flowers, she remarked to some one who stood and watched her, “Miss Winthrop is engaged.  How foolish of a girl in her first season!  Before she’s had any fun, to settle down to dull married life.”

She had a rose in her hand, prepared to revive Peter with it, in case her speech was too much for one dose, but when she glanced at him, he was smiling happily.

“What is it?” asked Leonore, disapprovingly.

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter.  “I wasn’t listening.  Did you say Miss Winthrop was married?”

“What were you smiling over?” said Leonore, in the same voice.

“I was thinking of—­of—.”  Then Peter hesitated and laughed.

“Of what?” asked Leonore.

“You really mustn’t ask me,” laughed Peter.

“Of what were you thinking?”

“Of eyelashes,” confessed Peter.

“It’s terrible!” cogitated Leonore, “I can’t snub him any more, try as I may.”

In truth, Peter was not worrying any longer over what Leonore said or did to him.  He was merely enjoying her companionship.  He was at once absolutely happy, and absolutely miserable.  Happy in his hope.  Miserable in its non-certainty.  To make a paradox, he was confident that she loved him, yet he was not sure.  A man will be absolutely confident that a certain horse will win a race, or he will be certain that a profit will accrue from a given business transaction.  Yet, until the horse has won, or the profit is actually made, he is not assured.  So it was with Peter.  He thought that he had but to speak, yet dared not do it.  The present was so certain, and the future might have such agonies.  So for two days he merely followed Leonore about, enjoying her pretty ways and hardly heeding her snubs and petulance.  He was very silent, and often abstracted, but his silence and abstraction brought no relief to Leonore, and only frightened her the more, for he hardly let her out of his sight, and the silent devotion and tenderness were so obvious that Leonore felt how absolutely absurd was her pretence of unconsciousness.  In his very “Miss D’Alloi” now, there was a tone in his voice and a look in his face which really said the words:  “My darling.”  Leonore thought this was a mean trick, of apparently sustaining the conventions of society, while in reality outraging them horribly, but she was helpless to better his conduct.  Twice unwittingly he even called her “Leonore” (as he had to himself for two months), thereby terribly disconcerting the owner of that name.  She wanted to catch him up and snub him each time, but she was losing her courage.  She knew that she was walking on a mine, and could not tell what chance word or deed of hers would bring an explosion.  “And then what can I say to him?” she asked.