“I like your hands almost as much as your eyes.”

“That’s very nice,” said Leonore.

“And I like the way you say ‘dear,’” said Peter.  “Don’t you want to say it again?”

“No, I hate people who say the same thing twice.”

Then there was a long pause.

“What poor things words are?” said Peter, at the end of it.

“I know just what you mean,” said Leonore.

Clearly they both meant what they said, for there came another absence of words.  How long the absence would have continued is a debatable point.  Much too soon a door opened.

“Hello!” said a voice.  “Back already?  What kind of an evening had you?”

“A very pleasant one,” said Peter, calmly, yet expressively.

“Let go my hand, Peter, please,” a voice whispered imploringly.  “Oh, please!  I can’t to-night.  Oh, please!”

“Say ‘dear,’” whispered Peter, meanly.

“Please, dear,” said Leonore.  Then Leonore went towards the stairs hurriedly.

“Not off already, Dot, surely?”

“Yes.  I’m going to bed.”

“Come and have a cigar, Peter,” said Watts, walking towards the library.

“In a moment,” said Peter.  He went to the foot of the stairs and said, “Please, dear,” to the figure going up.

“Well?” said the figure.

Peter went up five steps.  “Please,” he begged.

“No,” said the figure, “but there is my hand.”

So Peter turned the little soft palm uppermost and kissed it Then he forgot the cigar and Watts.  He went to his room, and thought of—­of his birthday gift.

CHAPTER LIX.

“GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY.”

If Peter had roamed about the hall that evening, he was still more restless the next morning.  He was down early, though for no apparent reason, and did nothing but pass from hall to room, and room to hall, spending most of his time in the latter, however.

How Leonore could have got from her room into the garden without Peter’s seeing her was a question which puzzled him not a little, when, by a chance glance out of a window, he saw that personage clipping roses off the bushes.  He did not have time to spare, however, to reason out an explanation.  He merely stopped roaming, and went out to—­to the roses.

“Good-morning,” said Leonore pleasantly, though not looking at Peter, as she continued her clipping.

Peter did not say anything for a moment.  Then he asked, “Is that all?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Leonore, innocently.  “Besides, someone might be looking out of a window.”

Peter calmly took hold of the basket to help Leonore sustain its enormous weight.  “Let me help you carry it,” he said.

“Very well,” said Leonore.  “But there’s no occasion to carry my hand too.  I’m not decrepit.”

“I hoped I was helping you,” said Peter.