“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.”

“It’s growing,” said Peter—­and they laughed together.

“Why didn’t you come to lunch?” she said.

“Lunch!  I didn’t know that any one ever went to lunch in New York—­in this part of it, at least—­with less than three weeks’ notice.  And by the way, if I am interfering with any engagement—­”

“My book is not so full as all that.  Of course you’ll come and stay with us, Peter.”

He shook his head regretfully.

“My train leaves at six, from Forty-Second Street,” he replied.

“Oh, you are niggardly,” she cried.  “To think how little I see of you, Peter.  And sometimes I long for you.  It’s strange, but I still miss you terribly—­after five years.  It seems longer than that,” she added, as she poured the boiling water into the tea-pot.  But she did not look at him.

He got up and walked as far as a water-colour on the wall.

“You have some beautiful things here, Honora,” he said.  “I am glad I have had a glimpse of you surrounded by them to carry back to your aunt and uncle.”

She glanced about the room as he spoke, and then at him.  He seemed the only reality in it, but she did not say so.

“You’ll see them soon,” was what she said.  And considered the miracle of him staying there where Providence had placed him, and bringing the world to him.  Whereas she, who had gone forth to seek it—­“The day after to-morrow will be Sunday,” he reminded her.