Instantly Aladdin was all concern.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you purposely,” he said, “but I’m terribly blue, too, dear, and one tries to keep up and says asinine things, and”—­he smiled, and his smile was very winning—­“is at once forgiven by an old dear.”

She held out her hand and gave his a friendly squeeze.

“You old darling!” he said, and ran out.

She followed him into the hall, and met Manners, who had just parted from the senator at the front door.  His uniform was wonderfully becoming.

“Is it Peter?”

They shook hands.

“Never,” she said, “have I seen anything so beautiful!”

Peter blushed (looking even more beautiful, for he hated to be talked about).

“Where was ’Laddin going?” he said.  “He went by me like a shot out of a gun, and had only time to pull my hat over my eyes and squeal Peeeter.”

“He’s very important now,” said Margaret, “and wonders how anybody can want to write things and be a poet or a musician when there are real things to do in the world.”

Peter looked at his watch.

“Isn’t that the least bit rude?” said Margaret.

“No,” said Peter; “my train back leaves in one hour, and I could better afford to lose my chances of heaven.  I had no business to come, as it was.  But I had to come.”

Margaret sighed.  She had hoped that it would not happen so soon.  He followed her into the parlor and closed the door behind him.

“First, Margaret,” he said, “I’m going to tell you something that may surprise you a little.  It did me; it was so sudden.  My sister Ellen is going to be married.”

“Ellen!” exclaimed Margaret.  “Why, she always said—­” “It’s only been arranged in the last few days,” said Peter, “by many telegrams.  I was told to tell you.”

“Is he nice?”

“Yes.  He’s a good chap.”

“Rich?”

“Well—­rather rising than rich.”

“Who is it?”

“Your brother John.”

“My dear Peter—­”

“No—­I never did, either!”

“Isn’t that splendid!”

Peter pulled a grave face.

“Yes—­and no,” he said.

“I hope you’re not going to be insolent,” said Margaret.

“It depends on what you call insolent.  My father, you see, objects very much to having Ellen go out of the family, but he says that he can learn to bear that if the only other girl in the world will come into the family.”

Manners’ voice had become husky toward the last of the sentence, and perhaps not husky so much as hungry.  Margaret knew better than to say anything of the kind, but she couldn’t help looking as innocent as a child and saying: 

“Won’t she?”

“How do I know?” said Peter.  “I have come to ask her.”

He looked so very strong and manly and frank that Margaret, whose world had been terribly blue recently, was half tempted to throw herself into his arms and cry.