“She has made no pretenses,” protested Peter. “I’m sure if she married a man it’d be because she cared for him.”
“Fudge, Peter—fudge!” laughed Richmond. “You’re a man of the world. You know what she wants.” Then, with gimlet eyes and with bony finger poking into the heavy muscle of Peter’s arm: “If you wish to know what anybody wants you don’t listen to what they say, you look at what they need.”
This was the kind of shrewdness that made impression upon Peter, the sensitively suspicious. He winced, looked uncomfortable and sheepish.
“There’s nothing in that artist story,” scoffed Richmond. “You know Beatrice. She’s very proud. Take my advice, don’t speak to her about it. If she got a notion that you were flirting with Allie—” Richmond made a gesture suggestive of vague, vast dangers.
“I hope, sir, you’ve not got the impression that I—that I—” Peter came to a full stop.
“I’ve got no impression at all except that you wish to marry Beatrice on the eighteenth.”
“The twentieth,” corrected Peter.
“The twentieth, then.” Richmond had now changed his manner to the benevolent paternal. “And do be sensible, young man, and make no trouble between Beatrice and Allie.”
Thus it came to pass that when Peter and Beatrice were strolling down the Italian garden after lunch, Peter lost no time in obeying Richmond’s orders. Nor did he set about it with any reluctance, for Beatrice was once more herself and, in a costume that gave her every charm its best chance, was enough to turn a far steadier head than Peter’s had been in several years where she was concerned. “Don’t you think,” said he, “that we’d better change the date to the eighteenth?”
She made no immediate reply. They walked slowly toward the arch at the farther end, he glancing at her from time to time with a notion that she had not heard. At last he asked: “Did you hear?”