All these thoughts surged through his mind as he stood looking into her eyes, her hand in his while he made his adieux.  He had determined, before Morris fired the bomb which shattered his hopes, to ask if he might see her again, and where, and if there could be found no place fitting and proper, she being motherless and Miss Felicia but a chaperon, to write her a note inviting her to walk up through the Park with him, and so on into the open where she really belonged.  All this was given up now.  The best thing for him was to take his leave as quietly as possible, without committing her to anything—­anything which he felt sure she would repudiate as soon as she learned—­if she did not know already—­how undesirable an acquaintance John Breen, of Breen & Co., was, etc.

As to his uncle’s share in the miserable transaction, there was but one thing to do—­to find out, and from his own lips, if possible, if the story were true, and if so to tell him exactly what he thought of Breen & Co. and the business in which they were engaged.  Peter’s advice was good, and he wished he could follow it, but here was a matter in which his honor was concerned.  When this side of the matter was presented to Mr. Grayson he would commend him for his course of action.  To think that his own uncle should be accused of a transaction of this kind—­his own uncle and a Breen!  Could anything be more horrible!

So sudden was his departure from the room—­just “I must go now; I’m so grateful to you all for asking me, and I’ve had such a good—­Good-by—­” that Miss Felicia looked after him in astonishment, turning to Peter with: 

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?  I wanted him to dine with us.  Did you say anything to him, Peter, to hurt his feelings?”

Peter shook his head.  Morris, he knew, was the unconscious culprit, but this was not for his sister’s or Ruth’s ears—­not, at least, until he could get at the exact facts for himself.

“He is as sensitive as a plant,” continued Peter; “he closes all up at times.  But he is genuine, and he is sincere—­that’s better than poise, sometimes.”

“Well, then, maybe Ruth has offended him,” suggested Miss Felicia.  “No—­she couldn’t.  Ruth, what have you done to young Mr. Breen?”

The girl threw back her head and laughed.

“Nothing.”

“Well, he went off as if he had been shot from a gun.  That is not like him at all, I should say, from what I have seen of him.  Perhaps I should have looked after him a little more.  I tried once, but I could not get him away from you.  His manner is really charming when he talks, and he is so natural and so well bred; not at all like his friend, of whom he seems to think so much.  How did you like him, dear Ruth?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”  She knew, but she didn’t intend to tell anybody.  “He’s very shy and—­”

“—­And very young.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“And very much of a gentleman,” broke in Peter in a decided tone.  None should misunderstand the boy if he could help it.