“Of eyelashes,” confessed Peter.
“It’s terrible!” cogitated Leonore, “I can’t snub him any more, try as I may.”
In truth, Peter was not worrying any longer over what Leonore said or did to him. He was merely enjoying her companionship. He was at once absolutely happy, and absolutely miserable. Happy in his hope. Miserable in its non-certainty. To make a paradox, he was confident that she loved him, yet he was not sure. A man will be absolutely confident that a certain horse will win a race, or he will be certain that a profit will accrue from a given business transaction. Yet, until the horse has won, or the profit is actually made, he is not assured. So it was with Peter. He thought that he had but to speak, yet dared not do it. The present was so certain, and the future might have such agonies. So for two days he merely followed Leonore about, enjoying her pretty ways and hardly heeding her snubs and petulance. He was very silent, and often abstracted, but his silence and abstraction brought no relief to Leonore, and only frightened her the more, for he hardly let her out of his sight, and the silent devotion and tenderness were so obvious that Leonore felt how absolutely absurd was her pretence of unconsciousness. In his very “Miss D’Alloi” now, there was a tone in his voice and a look in his face which really said the words: “My darling.” Leonore thought this was a mean trick, of apparently sustaining the conventions of society, while in reality outraging them horribly, but she was helpless to better his conduct. Twice unwittingly he even called her “Leonore” (as he had to himself for two months), thereby terribly disconcerting the owner of that name. She wanted to catch him up and snub him each time, but she was losing her courage. She knew that she was walking on a mine, and could not tell what chance word or deed of hers would bring an explosion. “And then what can I say to him?” she asked.
What she said was this:
Peter came downstairs the third evening of his stay “armed and equipped as the law directs” for a cotillion. In the large hallway, he found Leonore, likewise in gala dress, resting her hand on the tall mantel of the hall, and looking down at the fire. Peter stopped on the landing to enjoy that pose. He went over every detail with deliberation. But girl, gown, and things in general, were much too tempting to make this distant glimpse over lengthy. So he descended to get a closer view. The pose said nothing, and Peter strolled to the fire, and did likewise. But if he did not speak he more than made up for his silence with his eyes.
Finally the pose said, “I suppose it’s time we started?”
“Some one’s got to speak,” the pose had decided. Evidently the pose felt uneasy under that silent gaze.
“It’s only a little past ten,” said Peter, who was quite satisfied with the status quo.
Then silence came again. After this had held for a few moments, the pose said: “Do say something!”
“Something,” said Peter. “Anything else I can do for you?”