The mistress of the house lifted up her voice in raucous mirth.
"I don't see, Peter," she returned, "that you have any money to be loved for now."
"Hence," commented her lord and master, while Beekman grew hot and cold by turns at this free and easy bickering, "hence you didn't come down to the Tombs. But," his forefinger shot out and, figuratively speaking, touched her on a vital spot, "you made a big mistake! If you'd been there the artists of the daily press would have had you shown up in forty different poses for Sunday. I had the devil's own time in keeping Leslie's face from getting in. But yours—I could have had it in every hour of the day without its costing me one penny."
The lady leaned forward in genuine eagerness, and asked:
"Is that true, Peter? I thought they had abandoned me—left me on the shelf. But if it's true, I promise to be there every day the next time you're locked up."
Peter V. paled perceptibly.
"There isn't going to be any next time," he laughed. "Eliot Beekman's going to see to that."
Meantime in the Colonial drawing-room, Leslie was enjoying a quiet tête-à-tête with Colonel Morehead.
"It was the nicest thing in the world, Colonel," she was telling him, "your picking out Eliot Beekman for—for father. And I believe you're right. Mr. Beekman is so honest, so earnest, and so convincing. And he looks you in the eye so."
"Um, how does he look you in the eye?" returned the Colonel, meeting her gaze.