As Peter talked, a clock struck.  Stopping short, he rose.  “I must ask your pardon,” he said.  “I had no idea I had taken so much of your time.”  Then putting his hand in his pocket, he produced the check.  “You see that I have made a very good thing out of the whole matter and do not need this.”

“One moment, Mr. Stirling,” said the lady, still sitting.  “Can you spare the time to lunch with me?  We will sit down at once, and you shall be free to go whenever you wish.”

Peter hesitated.  He knew that he had the time, and it did not seem easy to refuse without giving an excise, which he did not have.  Yet he did not feel that he had the right to accept an invitation which he had perhaps necessitated by his long call.

“Thank you,” said his hostess, before he had been able to frame an answer.  “May I trouble you to pull that bell?”

Peter pulled the bell, and coming back, tendered the check rather awkwardly to Miss De Voe.  She, however, was looking towards a doorway, which the next moment was darkened by the butler.

“Morden,” she said, “you may serve luncheon at once.”

“Luncheon is served, madam,” said Morden.

Miss De Voe rose.  “Mr. Stirling, I do not think your explanation has really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check.  You acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and received no fees for trying it.  As I wrote you, I merely was giving a retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, I still wish to do it.  I cannot do such things myself, but I am weal—­I—­I can well afford to aid others to do them, and I hope you will let me have the happiness of feeling that I have done my little in this matter.”

“Thank you,” said Peter.  “I was quite willing to take the money, but I was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception.”

Miss De Voe smiled at Peter with a very nice look in her face.  “I am the one to say ‘thank you,’ and I am most grateful.  But we will consider that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place.”

Peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the beauty of the table service.  The meal itself was the simplest of summer luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never seen before.

“What wine will you have with your luncheon, Mr. Stirling?” he was asked by his hostess.

“I don’t—­none for me,” replied Peter.

“You don’t approve of wine?” asked his hostess.

“Personally I have no feeling about it.”

“But?” And there was a very big question mark in Miss De Voe’s voice.

“My mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so I do not take it.  It is really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to her if I drank.”

This started the conversation on Peter’s mother and his early years, and before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much more about his origin and his New York life.  The clock finally cut him short again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was finished, though Miss De Voe made the pretence of eating a grape occasionally.  When three o’clock struck, Peter, without the least simulating any other cause for going, rose hastily.