“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so glad. I felt so worried over it. Not about this case, for I don’t care for him, a bit. But I wondered if I had to suspect every man who came near me.”
Peter’s eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods.
Then at last Leonore made the remark towards which she had been working. At twenty-five Leonore would have been able to say it without so dangerous a preamble.
“I don’t want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone,” she said. “I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying for at least five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,”
Five years! Peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling. He would like to claim that bit of womanhood as his own that moment, and she could talk of five years! It was the clearest possible indication to Peter that Leonore was heart-whole. “No one, who is in love,” he thought, “could possibly talk of five years, or five months even.” When Peter got back to his chambers that afternoon, he was as near being despairing as he had been since—since—a long time ago. Even the obvious fact, that, if Leonore was not in love with him, she was also not in love with any one else, did not cheer him. There is a flag in the navy known as the Blue-Peter. That evening, Peter could have supplied our whole marine, with considerable bunting to spare.
But even worse was in store for him on the morrow. When he joined Leonore in the Park that day, she proved to him that woman has as much absolute brutality as the lowest of prize-fighters. Women get the reputation of being less brutal, because of their dread of blood-letting. Yet when it comes to torturing the opposite sex in its feelings, they are brutes compared with their sufferers.
“Do you know,” said Leonore, “that this is almost our last ride together?”
“Don’t jerk the reins needlessly, Peter,” said Mutineer, crossly.