“How unkind of you, Peter!” she exclaimed.

She felt his eyes upon her, and their searching, yet kindly and humorous rays seemed to illuminate chambers within her which she would have kept in darkness:  which she herself did not wish to examine.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said a little breathlessly, flinging her muff and boa on a chair.  “Sit there, where I can look at you, and tell me why you didn’t let me know you were coming to New York.”

He glanced a little comically at the gilt and silk arm-chair which she designated, and then at her; and she smiled and coloured, divining the humour in his unspoken phrase.

“For a great man,” she declared, “you are absurd.”

He sat down.  In spite of his black clothes and the lounging attitude he habitually assumed, with his knees crossed—­he did not appear incongruous in a seat that would have harmonized with the flowing robes of the renowned French Cardinal himself.  Honora wondered why.  He impressed her to-day as force—­tremendous force in repose, and yet he was the same Peter.  Why was it?  Had the clipping that even then lay in her bosom effected this magic change?  He had intimated as much, but she denied it fiercely.

She rang for tea.

“You haven’t told me why you came to New York,” she said.

“I was telegraphed for, from Washington, by a Mr. Wing,” he explained.

“A Mr. Wing,” she repeated.  “You don’t mean by any chance James Wing?”

“The Mr. Wing,” said Peter.

“The reason I asked,” explained Honora, flushing, was because Howard is —­associated with him.  Mr. Wing is largely interested in the Orange Trust Company.”

“Yes, I know,” said Peter.  His elbows were resting on the arms of his chair, and he looked at the tips of his fingers, which met.  Honora thought it strange that he did not congratulate her, but he appeared to be reflecting.

“What did Mr. Wing want?” she inquired in her momentary confusion, and added hastily, “I beg your pardon, Peter.  I suppose I ought not to ask that.”

“He was kind enough to wish me to live in New York he answered, still staring at the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, how nice!” she cried—­and wondered at the same time whether, on second thoughts, she would think it so.  “I suppose he wants you to be the counsel for one of his trusts.  When—­when do you come?”

“I’m not coming.”

“Not coming!  Why?  Isn’t it a great compliment?”

He ignored the latter part of her remark; and it seemed to her, when she recalled the conversation afterwards, that she had heard a certain note of sadness under the lightness of his reply.

“To attempt to explain to a New Yorker why any one might prefer to live in any other place would be a difficult task.”

“You are incomprehensible, Peter,” she declared.  And yet she felt a relief that surprised her, and a desire to get away from the subject.  “Dear old St. Louis!  Somehow, in spite of your greatness, it seems to fit you.”