Peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its general friendliness. His manner may have suggested this, for suddenly the girl said:
“But of course, you do not know who I am? How foolish of me! I am Leonore D’Alloi.”
It was Peter’s turn to gasp. “Not—?” he began and then stopped.
“Yes,” said the girl joyfully, as if Peter’s “not” had had something delightful in it.
“But—she’s a child.”
“I’ll be eighteen next week,” said Leonore, with all the readiness of that number of years to proclaim its age.
Peter concluded that he must accept the fact. Watts could have a child that old. Having reached this conclusion, he said, “I ought to have known you by your likeness to your mother.” Which was an unintentional lie. Her mother’s eyes she had, as well as the long lashes; and she had her mother’s pretty figure, though she was taller. But otherwise she was far more like Watts. Her curly hair, her curvy mouth, the dimple, and the contour of the face were his. Leonore D’Alloi was a far greater beauty than her mother had ever been. But to Peter, it was merely a renewal of his dream.
Just at this point the groom rode up. “Beg pardon, Miss D’Alloi,” he said, touching his cap. “My ’orse went down on a bit of hice.”
“You are not hurt, Belden?” said Miss D’Alloi.
Peter thought the anxious tone heavenly. He rather wished he had broken something himself.