“Ray swore that he wouldn’t tell. And Dorothy has always appeared ignorant. And yet she knew it on her wedding trip.”
“She couldn’t help it. She said she must tell some one, she was so happy. So she told mamma and me. She showed us your photograph. Papa and mamma said it was like you, but I don’t think it is.”
Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the man’s remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of this dialogue, Peter had had only “come-and-go” glimpses of those eyes. He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair, and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. For the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that “life isn’t all beer and skittles.”
“I’ve been so anxious to meet you. I’ve begged papa ever since we landed to take me to see you. And he’s promised me, over and over again, to do it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very strange and—and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt that I really knew you, and wouldn’t have to begin new as I do with other people. I do so dread next winter when I’m to go into society. I don’t know what I shall do, I’ll not know any one.”
“You’ll know me.”
“But you don’t go into society.”
“Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next winter. I’ve shut myself up too much.” This was a discovery of Peter’s made in the last ten seconds.
“How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of attention?”
“You’ll probably want very little. I don’t dance.” Peter suddenly became conscious that Mr. Weller was right.
“But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing.”