“Then I think I’ll have you do it all. We’ll come down and see you about it. But write out that opinion at once, so that I can prove that I’m an American.”
“Very well. But there’s a safer way, even, of making sure that you’re an American.”
“What is that?” said Leonore, eagerly.
“Marry one,” said Peter.
“Oh, yes,” said Leonore, “I’ve always intended to do that, but not for a great many years.”
CHAPTER XLI.
CALLS.
Peter dressed himself the next evening with particular care, even for him. As Peter dressed, he was rather down on life. He had been kept from his ride that afternoon by taking evidence in a referee case. “I really needed the exercise badly,” he said. He had tried to work his dissatisfaction off on his clubs and dumb-bells, but whatever they had done for his blood and tissue, they had not eased his frame of mind. Dinner made him a little pleasanter, for few men can remain cross over a proper meal. Still, he did not look happy, when, on rising from his coffee, he glanced at his watch and found that it was but ten minutes past eight.
He vacillated for a moment, and then getting into his outside trappings, he went out and turned eastward, down the first side street. He walked four blocks, and then threw open the swing door of a brilliantly lighted place, stepping at once into a blaze of light and warmth which was most attractive after the keen March wind blowing outside.
He nodded to the three barkeepers. “Is Dennis inside?” he asked.