“Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?”
“Yes.” To himself Peter said, “I must write Green and the rest to telegraph me every day.”
“Now we’ll have a cup of tea,” said Leonore. “I like politics.”
“Then you would like Albany,” said Peter, putting a chair for her by the little tea-table.
“I wouldn’t live in Albany for the whole world,” said Leonore, resuming her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty vanished in a wail. “Oh!” she cried. “How it hurts.”
“Let me see,” said Peter sympathetically.
The little hand was held up. “It does hurt,” said Leonore, who saw that there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered.
But Peter treated it very seriously. “I’m sure it does,” he said, taking possession of the hand. “And I know how it hurts.” He leaned over and kissed the little thumb. Then he didn’t care a scrap whether Leonore liked Albany or not.
“I won’t snub you this time,” said Leonore to herself, “because you didn’t laugh at me for it.”
Peter’s evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from dinner that she was going to a dance. “We have permission to take you. Do you care to go?”