a very real, very human individual, clad in a dark nondescript suit of clothes which had been bought ready-made, and plainly without the bestowal of much thought, on Fifth Street.  The fact that they were a comparative fit was in itself a tribute to the enterprise of the Excelsior Clothing Company, for Honora’s observation that he was too long one way had been just.  He was too tall, his shoulders were too high, his nose too prominent, his eyes too deep-set; and he wore a straw hat with the brim turned up.

To Honora his appearance was as familiar as the picture of the Pope which had always stood on Catherine’s bureau.  But to-night, by grace of some added power of vision, she saw him with new and critical eyes.  She was surprised to discover that he was possessed of a quality with which she had never associated him—­youth.  Not to put it too strongly—­comparative youth.

“Peter,” she demanded, “why do you dress like that?”

“Like what?” he said.

Honora seized the lapel of his coat.

“Like that,” she repeated.  “Do you know, if you wore different clothes, you might almost be distinguished looking.  Don’t laugh.  I think it’s horrid of you always to laugh when I tell you things for your own good.”

“It was the idea of being almost distinguished looking that—­that gave me a shock,” he assured her repentantly.

“You should dress on a different principle,” she insisted.

Peter appeared dazed.

“I couldn’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because—­because I don’t dress on any principle now.”

“Yes, you do,” said Honora, firmly.  “You dress on the principle of the wild beasts and fishes.  It’s all in our natural history at Miss Farmer’s.  The crab is the colour of the seaweed, and the deer of the thicket.  It’s a device of nature for the protection of weak things.”

Peter drew himself up proudly.

“I have always understood, Miss Leffingwell, that the king of beasts was somewhere near the shade of the jungle.”

Honora laughed in spite of this apparent refutation of her theory of his apparel, and shook her head.

“Do be serious, Peter.  You’d make much more of an impression on people if you wore clothes that had—­well, a little more distinction.”

“What’s the use of making an impression if you can’t follow it up?” he said.

“You can,” she declared.  “I never thought of it until to-night, but you must have a great deal in you to have risen all the way from an errand boy in the bank to a lawyer.”

“Look out!” he cautioned her; “I shall become insupportably conceited.”

“A little more conceit wouldn’t hurt you,” said Honora, critically.  “You’ll forgive me, Peter, if I tell you from time to time what I think.  It’s for your own good.”

“I try to realize that,” replied Peter, humbly.  “How do you wish me to dress—­like Mr. Rossiter?”