“Of course you and Peter will be friends,” said Watts.
“But mamma told me last night—after we went upstairs, that she was sure Mr. Stirling would never call.”
“Never, Dot?” cried Watts.
“Yes. And when I asked her why, she wouldn’t tell me at first, but at last she said it was because he was so unsociable. I shan’t be friends with any one who won’t come to see me.” Leonore was apparently looking at the floor, but from under her lashes she was looking at something else.
Whatever Peter may have felt, he looked perfectly cool. Too cool, Leonore thought. “I’m not going to make any vows or protestations of friendship,” he said, “I won’t even pledge myself to come and see you, Miss D’Alloi. Remember, friendship comes from the word free. If we are to be friends, we must each leave the other to act freely.”
“Well,” said Leonore, “that is, I suppose, a polite way of saying that you don’t intend to come. Now I want to know why you won’t?”
“The reasons will take too long to explain to you now, so I’ll defer the telling till the first time I call on you.” Peter was smiling down at her.
Miss D’Alloi looked up at Peter, to see what meaning his face gave his last remark. Then she held out her two hands. “Of course we are to be the best of friends,” she said. Peter got a really good look down into those eyes as they shook hands.
The moment this matter had been settled, Leonore’s manner changed. “So this is the office of the great Peter Stirling?” she said, with the nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to Peter.
“It doesn’t look it,” said Watts. “By George, with the business people say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. It’s worse even than our old Harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough.”