Then she caught sight of a certain expression on Peter Ruff’s face, and she looked at him wonderingly.
“Is anything wrong, Peter?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, “I cannot say that anything is wrong. I have had an invitation to present myself before a certain society in Paris of which you have some indirect knowledge. What the summons means I cannot say.”
“Yet you go?” she exclaimed.
“I go,” he answered. “I have no choice. If I waited here twenty-four hours, I should hear of it.”
“They can have nothing against you,” she said. “On the contrary, the only time they have appealed for your aid, you gave it—very valuable aid it must have been, too.”
Peter Ruff nodded.
“I cannot see,” he admitted, “what they can have against me. And yet, somehow, the wording of my invitation seemed to me a little ominous. Perhaps,” he added, walking to the window and standing looking out for a moment, “I have a liver this morning. I am depressed. Violet, what does it mean when you are depressed?”
“Shall you wear your gray clothes for traveling?” she asked, a little irrelevantly.
“I have not made up my mind,” Peter Ruff answered. “I thought of wearing my brown, with a brown overcoat. What do you suggest?”