her roving life, and at seventeen a girl craves friends. When,
therefore, the return to America was determined upon, she had at once
decided that Peter and she would be the closest of friends. That she
would tell him all her confidences, and take all her troubles to him.
Miss De Voe and Dorothy had told her about Peter, and from their
descriptions, as well as from her father's reminiscences, Leonore had
concluded that Peter was just the friend she had wanted for so long.
That Leonore held her eyes down, and tried to charm yet tantalize her
intended friend, was because Leonore could not help it, being only
seventeen and a girl. If Leonore had felt anything but a friendly
interest and liking, blended with much curiosity, in Peter, she never
would have gone to see him in his office, and would never have talked
and laughed so frankly with him.

As for Peter, he did not put his feelings into good docketed shape. He
did not attempt to label them at all. He had had a delicious half-hour
yesterday. He had decided, the evening before, that he must see those
slate-colored eyes again, if he had to go round the world in pursuit of
them. How he should do it, he had not even thought out, till the next
morning. He had understood very clearly that the owner of those
slate-colored eyes was really an unknown quantity to him. He had
understood, too, that the chances were very much against his caring to
pursue those eyes after he knew them better. But he was adamant that he
must see those eyes again, and prove for himself whether they were but
an _ignis fatuus_, or the radiant stars that Providence had cast for the
horoscope of Peter Stirling. He was studying those eyes, with their
concomitants, at the present time. He was studying them very coolly, to
judge from his appearance and conduct. Yet he was enjoying the study in
a way that he had never enjoyed the study of somebody "On Torts."
Somebody "On Torts," never looked like that. Somebody "On Torts," never
had luck-pieces, and silk ribbons. Somebody "On Torts," never wrote
letters and touched the end of pens to its lips. Somebody "On Torts,"
never courtesied, nor looked out from under its eyelashes, nor called
him Peter.

While this investigation had been progressing, Watts had looked at the
shelf of law books, had looked out of the window, had whistled, and had
yawned. Finally, in sheer _ennui_ he had thrown open a door, and looked
to see what lay beyond.

"Ha, ha!" he cried. "All i