“No one you know. A Mr. Costell.”
“Oh, yes I do. I’ve heard all about him.”
“What do you know of Mr. Costell?”
“What Miss De Voe told me.”
“Miss De Voe?”
“Yes. We saw her both times in Europe. Once at Nice, and once in—in 1882—at Maggiore. The first time, I was only six, but she used to tell me stories about you and the little children in the angle. The last time she told me all she could remember about you. We used to drift about the lake moonlight nights, and talk about you.”
“What made that worth doing to you?”
“Oh from the very beginning, that I can remember, papa was always talking about ‘dear old Peter’”—the talker said the last three words in such a tone, shot such a look up at Peter, half laughing and half timid, that in combination they nearly made Peter reel in his saddle—“and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak of, so I became very curious about you as a little girl, and then Miss De Voe made me more interested, so that I began questioning Americans, because I was really anxious to learn things concerning you. Nearly every one did know something, so I found out a great deal about you.”
Peter was realizing for the first time in his life, how champagne made one feel.
“Tell me whom you found who knew anything about me?”