“The maid knows a great deal,” he answered.
“You don’t know? Oh, Peter! Peter!” she exclaimed, her voice full of tragedy. “You have forgotten something even now.”
Peter pressed his hand against his forehead as if in deep thought, and he let a light come into his eyes. He still jested with her. Of course he knew. He took her slim fingers in his hand and led her over to the divan.
“I know, I know,” he said, as if a great light had broken in upon him. “What a foolish child you are.”
He took her gently in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Clarinda smiled and tucked herself close in his arms.
“You won’t forget again, Peter?” she asked.
“No,” he replied with a shake of his head.
IV
Notwithstanding Peter took her in his arms and soothed her perturbation and made life bloom once more with almost the same brightness it had, the air was permeated with a spirit of uncertainty. The effect was impalpable, for there existed in Clarinda’s mind a subconscious fear that something had crept into her love which was foreign—and ate interstices in the whole.
This permeation of her love by some foreign thing was evident to her father one evening when he dropped in and found Peter absent. Peter explained to Clarinda with care the necessity of his going, and tried to convince her that it was vital for him to keep an engagement. It was so vital, he contended, that it would brook no interference, not even the interference of the thing which was the sole ambition of his life—her happiness. This engagement was of such importance that it would not allow him to sink down upon the divan and take her in his arms and tell her of the things he had accomplished during the day. Peter kissed her as he went out, but Clarinda was upset.