"Why, I've always called you Peter, just like grandmother does—always!"
"Yes," admitted Peter, "and it's been very jolly and friendly. But, Sheila, I must have something to remind me that you're still a little girl and my pupil. There's nothing in your appearance to suggest it, but perhaps—if you will address me with a great deal of respect——"
At that, Sheila laughed and patted her frock: "Oh, I understand you now! Do I really seem so grown-up?"
"So grown-up that I can't understand how Mrs. Caldwell came to let you do it."
"Oh, Peter! Oh, Peter!"
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked, surprised at the poignant exclamation. But she turned abruptly away from him, and presently he saw her blue gown flutter through a distant doorway.
"Now I wonder," he pondered, "what in the world I've done. Offended her by appearing to criticize Mrs. Caldwell, I suppose."
But Peter had done a much graver thing than that. Unconsciously, he had summoned Sheila's conscience to its deserted duty; and already, like any well-intentioned conscience that has taken a vacation, it was making up for lost time.
With that comment of Peter's—"I can't understand how Mrs. Caldwell came to let you do it"—Sheila's little house of pleasure suddenly tumbled to the ground. She had not meant to be sorry about the deception of the frock until after the party, and until her encounter with Peter she had been successful enough in holding penitence at bay. That vision of herself in the mirror, seeming to answer some longing of her very soul, had indeed kept her forgetful of everything but a sense of fulfillment and triumph. But now, reminded of her grandmother, she began to be sorry at once—impatiently, violently sorry.
"I must go home," she murmured to herself distressfully, as she slipped unobserved through the crowded rooms. "I must go home. I can't wait until morning! I must tell grandmother now!"