“What a funny old chap he is?” Ray remarked to Ogden, as they went back to work. “He brought me his opinion, just after lunch, in the Hall-Seelye case. I suppose he had been grubbing all the morning over those awful figures, and a tougher or dryer job, you couldn’t make. Yet he came in to lunch looking as if he was walking on air.”
When Peter returned to his office, he would have preferred to stop work and think for a bit. He wanted to hold those violets, and smell them now and then. He wished to read that letter over again. He longed to have a look at that bit of ribbon and gold. But he resisted temptation. He said: “Peter Stirling, go to work.” So all the treasures were put in a drawer of his study table, and Peter sat down at his office desk. First, after tearing up his note to Watts, he wrote another, as follows:
WATTS:
You can understand why I did not call last night, or bind myself as to the future. I shall hope to receive an invitation to call from Mrs. D’Alloi. How, I must leave to you; but you owe me this much, and it is the only payment I ask of you. Otherwise let us bury all that has occurred since our college days, forever.
PETER.
Then he ground at the law till six, when he swung his clubs and dumb-bells for ten minutes; took a shower; dressed himself, and dined. Then he went into his study, and opened a drawer. Did he find therein a box of cigars, or a bunch of violets, gold-piece, ribbon and sheet of paper? One thing is certain. Peter passed another evening without reading or working. And two such idle evenings could not be shown in another week of his life for the last twenty years.
The next day Peter was considerably nearer earth. Not that he didn’t think those eyes just as lovely, and had he been thrown within their radius, he would probably have been as strongly influenced as ever. But he was not thrown within their influence, and so his strong nature and common sense reasserted themselves. He took his coffee, his early morning ride, and then his work, in their due order. After dinner, that evening, he only smoked one cigar. When he had done that, he remarked to himself—apropos of the cigars, presumably—“Peter, keep to your work. Don’t burn yourself again.” Then his face grew very firm, and he read a frivolous book entitled: “Neun atiologische und prophylactische Satze ... uber die Choleræpidemien in Ostindien,” till nearly one o’clock.
The following day was Sunday. Peter went to church, and in the afternoon rode out to Westchester to pass the evening there with Mrs. Costell. Peter thought his balance was quite recovered. Other men have said the same thing. The fact that they said so, proved that they were by no means sure of themselves.
This was shown very markedly on Monday in Peter’s case, for after lunch he did not work as steadily as he had done in the morning hours. He was restless. Twice he pressed his lips, and started in to work very, very hard—and did it for a time. Then the restlessness would come on again. Presently he took to looking at his watch. Then he would snap it to, and go to work again, with a great determination in his face, only to look at the watch again before long. Finally he touched his bell.
“Jenifer,” he said, “I wish you would rub off my spurs, and clean up my riding trousers.”