t as was the time, he succeeded in obtaining for one
of the party, "all the comic papers," "the latest novel," a small basket
of fruit, and a bunch of flowers, not one of which, with the exception
of the latter, the real object of these attentions wanted in the least.

Just here it is of value to record an interesting scientific discovery
of Leonore's, because women so rarely have made them. It was, that the
distance from New York to Newport is very much less than the distance
from Newport to New York.

Curiously enough, two days later, his journey seemed to Peter the
longest railroad ride he had ever taken. "His friend" did not meet him
this time. His friend felt that her trip to New York must be offset
before she could resume her proper self-respect. "He was very nice," she
had said, in monologue, "about putting the trip down to friendship. And
he was very nice that morning in his study. But I think his very
niceness is suspicious, and so I must be hard on him!" A woman's
reasoning is apt to seem defective, yet sometimes it solves problems not
otherwise answerable.

Leonore found her "hard" policy harder than she thought for. She told
Peter the first evening that she was going to a card-party. "I can't
take you," she said.

"I shall be all the better for a long night's sleep," said Peter,
calmly.

This was bad enough, but the next morning, as she was arranging the
flowers, she remarked to some one who stood and watched her, "Miss
Winthrop is engaged. How foolish of a girl in her first season! Before
she's had any fun, to settle down to dull married life."

She had a rose in her hand, prepared to revive Peter with it, in case
her speech was too much for one dose, but when she glanced at him, he
was smiling happily.

"What is it?" asked Leonore, disapprovingly.

"I beg your pardon," said Peter. "I wasn't listening. Did you say Miss
Winthrop was married?"

"What were you smiling over?" said Leonore, in the same voice.

"I was thinking of--of--." Then Peter hesitated and laughed.

"Of what?" asked Leonore.

"You really mustn't ask me," laughed Peter.

"Of what were you thinking?"

"Of eyelashes," confessed Peter.

"It's terrible!" cogitated Leonore, "I can't snub him any more, try as I
may."

In truth, Peter was not worrying any longer over what Leonore said or
did to him. He was merely enjoying her companionship. He was at once
absolutely happy, and absolutely miserable. Happy in his hope. Miserable