him close.

"Well, then, damn Pete!" he exploded.

IV

THE BOOK OF LOVE

Most men are only a fraction of the greatness that the world adds them
up to be, but Farrington is a whole man and then a fraction over. I
enjoy talking to him just as much as I do to Sam or anybody else who is
doing interesting things in a perfectly simple way. When we talked about
Peter and the play he reminded me in lots of ways of old Dr. Chubb when
he gets on the subject of spavined horses or sick cows; of course I
don't mean any disrespect to Peter in that comparison. I told Mr.
Farrington the same thing, and he didn't laugh at all; his eyes shone
out from under his bushy white eyebrows like two wise old stars, and he
said he saw exactly what I meant, and that he hoped to meet Dr. Chubb
some day. And I continued to feel enthusiasm for him even after half an
hour's talk on the subject of his treatment of Peter, which Peter had
led me to believe was atrocious.

"Dear, dearest Betty," said Peter, as he met me at the train on the
first day of September, "how wonderful to have you come just when I need
you most! I am in the depths of despair." And he looked it.

"Oh, Peter, is it about the play?" I gasped as I fairly hung on to his
arm while he was languidly giving my traveling-bag to a footman. Peter
looked like a literary version of what Sam called "the last of
pea-time," which is a very vivid expression to a person who has just
seen her poor peas drop away in the August garden. "What has happened?"

"I care nothing more about the play, Betty. It is stolen from me,"
answered Peter, gloomily, as he led me through the Pennsylvania Station
and up the steps toward the limousine, where I knew Mabel would be
waiting to eat me up and be in turn devoured.

"Why, Peter, what can you mean?" I gasped.

"I'll tell you all about it when I get you to myself. Don't mention it
to Mabel--she doesn't understand," he answered from behind his teeth as
he put me into the car and into Mabel's arms, and also into Miss
Greenough's.

But for all my joy at seeing both those dear friends again I couldn't
help being depressed by every glance at Peter, sitting opposite me,
looking white and glum.

"Don't notice him--he's more impossible than ever," said Mabel, once,
when Peter leaned out to be reproachful to the chauffeur for doing his
duty and keeping us waiting for the traffic signal. "I'll tell you all
when I get you alone."

Judge Vandyne met us