Just then Tim brought in the cards of Watts and Leonore, and strangely enough, Peter said they were to be shown in at once. In they came, and after the greetings, Peter said:
“Miss D’Alloi, this is my dear friend, Dennis Moriarty. Dennis, Miss D’Alloi has wanted to know you because she’s heard of your being such a friend to me.”
“Shure,” said Dennis, taking the little hand so eagerly offered him, “Oim thinkin’ we’re both lucky to be in the thoughts at all, at all, av such a sweet young lady.”
“Oh, Mr. Moriarty, you’ve kissed the blarney stone.”
“Begobs,” responded Dennis, “it needs no blarney stone to say that. It’s afther sayin’ itself.”
“Peter, have you that opinion?”
“Yes.” Peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink marginal references to such solid works as “Wheaton,” “Story,” and “Cranch’s” and “Wallace’s” reports. Peter had taken it practically from a “Digest,” but many apparently learned opinions come from the same source. And the whole was given value by the last two lines, which read, “Respectfully submitted, Peter Stirling.” Peter’s name had value at the bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else.
“Look, Mr. Moriarty,” cried Leonore, too full of happiness over this decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share it, “I’ve always thought I was French—though I didn’t feel so a bit—and now Mr. Stirling has made me an American, and I’m so happy. I hate foreigners.”
Watts laughed. “Why, Dot. You mustn’t say that to Mr. Moriarty. He’s a foreigner himself.”
“Oh, I forgot. I didn’t think that——” Poor Leonore stopped there, horrified at what she had said.