“I’m sorry, mamma. I was showing Peter the house.”
“Good-night,” said that individual. “I dread formal dinners usually, but this one has been the pleasantest of my life.”
“That’s very nice. And thank you, Peter, for the bracelet, and the flowers, and the compliment. They were all lovely. Would you like a rose?”
Would he? He said nothing, but he looked enough to get it.
“Can’t we put you down?” said a man at the door. “It’s not so far from Washington Square to your place, that your company won’t repay us.”
“Thank you,” said Peter, “but I have a hansom here.”
Yet Peter did not ride. He dismissed cabby, and walked down the Avenue. Peter was not going to compress his happiness inside a carriage that evening. He needed the whole atmosphere to contain it.
As he strode along he said:
“It isn’t her beauty and grace alone”—(It never is with a man, oh, no!)—“but her truth and frankness and friendliness. And then she doesn’t care for money, and she isn’t eaten up with ambition. She is absolutely untouched by the world yet. Then she is natural, yet reserved, with other men. She’s not husband-hunting, like so many of them. And she’s loving, not merely of those about her, but of everything.”
Musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited variations. This was what Peter proceeded to do. From Fifty-seventh Street to Peter’s rooms was a matter of four miles. Peter had not half finished his thematic treatment of Leonore when he reached his quarters. He sat down before his fire, however, and went on, not with hope of exhausting all possible variations, but merely for his own pleasure.