“Exactly,” laughed Lispenard. “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“Lispenard,” angrily said Miss De Voe, “Mr. Stirling is as much better than—”
“That’s it,” said Lispenard. “Don’t think I’m depreciating Peter. The trouble is that he is much too good a chap to make into a society or a lady’s man.”
“I believe you are right. I don’t think he cares for it at all.”
“No,” said Lispenard. “Barkis is not willin’. I think he likes you, and simply goes to please you.”
“Do you really think that’s it?”
Lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked. “No,” he replied. “I was joking. Peter cultivates you, because he wants to know your swell friends.”
Either this conversation or Miss De Voe’s own thoughts, led to a change in her course. Invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, and evenings at concerts took their place. Sometimes Lispenard went with them, sometimes one of the Ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. It was an unusual week when Peter’s mail did not now bring at least one little note giving him a chance to see Miss De Voe if he chose.
In February came a request for him to call. “I want to talk with you about something,” it said. That same evening he was shown into her drawing-rooms. She thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and Peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some strong feeling. He had stumbled in on her evening—for at that time people still had evenings—but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they were left alone together.
“Come into the library,” she said. As they passed across the hall she told Morden, “I shall not receive any more to-night.”