“Oh, how nice!” she cried—and wondered at the same time whether, on second thoughts, she would think it so. “I suppose he wants you to be the counsel for one of his trusts. When—when do you come?”
“I'm not coming.”
“Not coming! Why? Isn't it a great compliment?”
He ignored the latter part of her remark; and it seemed to her, when she recalled the conversation afterwards, that she had heard a certain note of sadness under the lightness of his reply.
“To attempt to explain to a New Yorker why any one might prefer to live in any other place would be a difficult task.”
“You are incomprehensible, Peter,” she declared. And yet she felt a relief that surprised her, and a desire to get away from the subject. “Dear old St. Louis! Somehow, in spite of your greatness, it seems to fit you.”
“It's growing,” said Peter—and they laughed together.
“Why didn't you come to lunch?” she said.
“Lunch! I didn't know that any one ever went to lunch in New York—in this part of it, at least—with less than three weeks' notice. And by the way, if I am interfering with any engagement—”
“My book is not so full as all that. Of course you'll come and stay with us, Peter.”