given _me_ a great charity this evening," said Peter.

"You mean the photographs," smiled Leonore.

"No."

"What else?"

"You have shown me the warmest and most loving of hearts," said Peter,
"and that is the best charity in the world."

On the way down they met Lispenard coming up. "I've just said good-night
to your mother. I would have spoken to you while we were in your room,
but you were so engrossed that Miss Winthrop and I thought we had better
not interrupt."

"I didn't see you," said Leonore.

"Indeed!" said Lispenard, with immense wonderment. "I can't believe
that. You know you were cutting us." Then he turned to Peter. "You old
scamp, you," he whispered, "you are worse than the Standard Oil."

"I sent for you some time ago, Leonore," said her mother,
disapprovingly. "The guests have been going and you were not here."

"I'm sorry, mamma. I was showing Peter the house."

"Good-night," said that individual. "I dread formal dinners usually, but
this one has been the pleasantest of my life."

"That's very nice. And thank you, Peter, for the bracelet, and the
flowers, and the compliment. They were all lovely. Would you like a
rose?"

Would he? He said nothing, but he looked enough to get it.

"Can't we put you down?" said a man at the door. "It's not so far from
Washington Square to your place, that your company won't repay us."

"Thank you," said Peter, "but I have a hansom here."

Yet Peter did not ride. He dismissed cabby, and walked down the Avenue.
Peter was not going to compress his happiness inside a carriage that
evening. He needed the whole atmosphere to contain it.

As he strode along he said:

"It isn't her beauty and grace alone"--(It never is with a man, oh,
no!)--"but her truth and frankness and friendliness. And then she
doesn't care for money, and she isn't eaten up with ambition. She is
absolutely untouched by the world yet. Then she is natural, yet
reserved, with other men. She's not husband-hunting, like so many of
them. And she's loving, not merely of those about her, but of
everything."

Musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited variations.
This was what Peter proceeded to do. From Fifty-seventh Street to
Peter's rooms was a matter of four miles. Peter had not half finished
his thematic treatment of Leonore when he reached his quarters. He sat
down before his fire, however, and went on, not with hope of exhausting
all possible variations, but merely for