“But?” And there was a very big question mark in Miss De Voe’s voice.
“My mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so I do not take it. It is really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to her if I drank.”
This started the conversation on Peter’s mother and his early years, and before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much more about his origin and his New York life. The clock finally cut him short again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was finished, though Miss De Voe made the pretence of eating a grape occasionally. When three o’clock struck, Peter, without the least simulating any other cause for going, rose hastily.
“I have used up your whole afternoon,” he said, apologetically.
“I think,” smiled Miss De Voe, “that we are equal culprits in that. I leave town to-morrow, Mr. Stirling, but return to the city late in October, and if your work and inclination favor it, I hope you will come to see me again?”
Peter looked at the silver and the china. Then he looked at Miss De Voe, so obviously an aristocrat.
“I shall be happy to,” he said, “if, when you return, you will send me word that you wish to see me.”
Miss De Voe had slightly caught her breath while Peter hesitated. “I believe he is going to refuse!” she thought to herself, a sort of stunned amazement seizing her. She was scarcely less surprised at his reply.
“I never ask a man twice to call on me, Mr. Stirling,” she said, with a slight hauteur in her voice.
“I’m sorry for that,” said Peter quietly.