s asked by some of the people he
met to call, probably on Miss De Voe's suggestion, and he dutifully
called. Yet at the end of three months Miss De Voe shook her head.

"He is absolutely a gentleman, and people seem to like him. Yet
somehow--I don't understand it."

"Exactly," laughed Lispenard. "You can't make a silk purse out of a
sow's ear."

"Lispenard," angrily said Miss De Voe, "Mr. Stirling is as much better
than--"

"That's it," said Lispenard. "Don't think I'm depreciating Peter. The
trouble is that he is much too good a chap to make into a society or a
lady's man."

"I believe you are right. I don't think he cares for it at all."

"No," said Lispenard. "Barkis is not willin'. I think he likes you, and
simply goes to please you."

"Do you really think that's it?"

Lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked.
"No," he replied. "I was joking. Peter cultivates you, because he wants
to know your swell friends."

Either this conversation or Miss De Voe's own thoughts, led to a change
in her course. Invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly
ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, and
evenings at concerts took their place. Sometimes Lispenard went with
them, sometimes one of the Ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. It
was an unusual week when Peter's mail did not now bring at least one
little note giving him a chance to see Miss De Voe if he chose.

In February came a request for him to call. "I want to talk with you
about something," it said. That same evening he was shown into her
drawing-rooms. She thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and
Peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some
strong feeling. He had stumbled in on her evening--for at that time
people still had evenings--but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they
were left alone together.

"Come into the library," she said. As they passed across the hall she
told Morden, "I shall not receive any more to-night."

The moment they were in the smaller and cosier room, without waiting to
sit even, she began: "Mr. Stirling, I dined at the Manfreys yesterday."
She spoke in a voice evidently endeavoring not to break. Peter looked
puzzled.

"Mr. Lapham, the bank president, was there."

Peter still looked puzzled.

"And he told the table about a young lawyer who had very little money,
yet who put five hundred dollars--his first fee--into his