“For misbehaving last night. Both mamma and madame say I did very wrong. I never thought I couldn’t be real friends with you.” The little lips were trembling slightly.
Peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. “Why can’t the women let such an innocent child alone?” he thought to himself. Aloud he said, “If any wrong was done, which I don’t think, it was my fault. Can I do anything?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her voice. “They say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won’t permit it for a moment.”
Peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: “I am so sorry they blame you. If I could only save you from it.” He evidently said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle.
“You see,” said Leonore, “I’ve always been very particular with men, but with you it seemed different. Yet they both say I stayed too long upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. They said I ought to treat you like other men. Don’t you think you are different?”
Yes. Peter thought he was very different.
“Mr. D’Alloi will see you in the library,” announced the footman at this point.
Peter turned to go, but in leaving he said: “Is there any pleasure or service I can do, to make up for the trouble I’ve caused you?”
Leonore put her head on one side, and looked a little less grief-stricken. “May I save that up?” she asked.
“Yes.”