The father appeared, a red-headed Irishman.
"Thank you, Mr. Erwin; I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir, to bother with him," he said gratefully. "It's that thin he is with the heat, I take him out for a bit of country air."
"Why, Tim, it's you, is it?" said Peter. "He's the janitor of our building down town," he explained to Honora, who had remained a silent witness to this simple scene. She had been, in spite of herself, impressed by it, and by the mingled respect and affection in the janitor's manner towards Peter. It was so with every one to whom he spoke. They walked on in silence for a few moments, into a path leading to a lake, which had stolen the flaming green-gold of the sky.
"I suppose," said Honora, slowly, "it would be better for me to wish to be contented where I am, as you are. But it's no use trying, I can't."
Peter was not a preacher.
"Oh," he said, "there are lots of things I want."
"What?" demanded Honora, interested. For she had never conceived of him as having any desires whatever.
"I want a house like Mr. Dwyer's," he declared, pointing at the distant imposing roof line against the fading eastern sky.
Honora laughed. The idea of Peter wishing such a house was indeed ridiculous. Then she became grave again.
"There are times when you seem to forget that I have at last grown up,
Peter. You never will talk over serious things with me."