The picture evoked of Peter arrayed like Mr. Harland Rossiter, who had sent flowers to two generations and was preparing to send more to a third, was irresistible.  Every city, hamlet, and village has its Harland Rossiter.  He need not be explained.  But Honora soon became grave again.

“No, but you ought to dress as though you were somebody, and different from the ordinary man on the street.”

“But I’m not,” objected Peter.

“Oh,” cried Honora, “don’t you want to be?  I can’t understand any man not wanting to be.  If I were a man, I wouldn’t stay here a day longer than I had to.”

Peter was silent as they went in at the gate and opened the door, for on this festive occasion they were provided with a latchkey.  He turned up the light in the hall to behold a transformation quite as wonderful as any contained in the “Arabian Nights” or Keightley’s “Fairy Mythology.”  This was not the Honora with whom he had left the house scarce three hours before!  The cambric dress, to be sure, was still no longer than the tops of her ankles and the hair still hung in a heavy braid down her back.  These were positively all that remained of the original Honora, and the change had occurred in the incredibly brief space required for the production of the opera “Pinafore.”  This Honora was a woman in a strange and disturbing state of exaltation, whose eyes beheld a vision.  And Peter, although he had been the subject of her conversation, well knew that he was not included in the vision.  He smiled a little as he looked at her.  It is becoming apparent that he is one of those unfortunate unimaginative beings incapable of great illusions.

“You’re not going!” she exclaimed.

He glanced significantly at the hall clock.

“Why, it’s long after bedtime, Honora.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.  I feel like talking,” she declared.  “Come, let’s sit on the steps awhile.  If you go home, I shan’t go to sleep for hours, Peter.”

“And what would Aunt Mary say to me?” he inquired.

“Oh, she wouldn’t care.  She wouldn’t even know it.”

He shook his head, still smiling.

“I’d never be allowed to take you to Uhrig’s Cave, or anywhere else, again,” he replied.  “I’ll come to-morrow evening, and you can talk to me then.”

“I shan’t feel like it then,” she said in a tone that implied his opportunity was now or never.  But seeing him still obdurate, with startling suddenness she flung her arms mound his neck—­a method which at times had succeeded marvellously—­and pleaded coaxingly:  “Only a quarter of an hour, Peter.  I’ve got so many things to say, and I know I shall forget them by to-morrow.”

It was a night of wonders.  To her astonishment the hitherto pliant Peter, who only existed in order to do her will, became transformed into a brusque masculine creature which she did not recognize.  With a movement that was almost rough he released himself and fled, calling back a “good night” to her out of the darkness.  He did not even wait to assist her in the process of locking up.  Honora, profoundly puzzled, stood for a while in the doorway gazing out into the night.  When at length she turned, she had forgotten him entirely.