“Morden,” she said, “you may serve luncheon at once.”
“Luncheon is served, madam,” said Morden.
Miss De Voe rose. “Mr. Stirling, I do not think your explanation has really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check. You acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and received no fees for trying it. As I wrote you, I merely was giving a retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, I still wish to do it. I cannot do such things myself, but I am weal—I—I can well afford to aid others to do them, and I hope you will let me have the happiness of feeling that I have done my little in this matter.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I was quite willing to take the money, but I was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception.”
Miss De Voe smiled at Peter with a very nice look in her face. “I am the one to say ‘thank you,’ and I am most grateful. But we will consider that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place.”
Peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the beauty of the table service. The meal itself was the simplest of summer luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never seen before.
“What wine will you have with your luncheon, Mr. Stirling?” he was asked by his hostess.
“I don’t—none for me,” replied Peter.
“You don’t approve of wine?” asked his hostess.
“Personally I have no feeling about it.”