“I hope not,” said Peter.
“We have changed our plans. Instead of going to Newport next week, I have at last persuaded papa to travel a little, so that I can see something of my own country, and not be so shamefully ignorant. We are going to Washington on Saturday, and from there to California, and then through the Yellowstone, and back by Niagara. We shan’t be in Newport till the middle of August”
Peter did not die at once. He caught at a life-preserver of a most delightful description. “That will be a very enjoyable trip,” he said. “I should like to go myself.”
“There is no one I would rather have than you,” said Leonore, laying her little hand softly on the wound she had herself just made, in a way which women have. Then she stabbed again. “But we think it pleasanter to have it just a party of four.”
“How long shall you be in Washington?” asked Peter, catching wildly at a straw this time.
“For a week. Why?”
“The President has been wanting to see me, and I thought I might run down next week,”
“Dear me,” thought Leonore. “How very persistent he is!”
“Where will you put up?” said Peter.
“We haven’t decided. Where shall you stay?” she had the brutality to ask.