r had charged her with murder or some other heinous crime. "I did
think so. I didn't find it out till--till that night. Really! Won't you
believe me?"

Peter smiled. He could have believed anything.

"Now," he said, "I know at last what Anarchists are for."

His ready acceptance of her statement made Leonore feel a slight prick
of conscience. She said: "Well--Peter--I mean--that is--at least, I did
sometimes think before then--that when I married, I'd marry you--but I
didn't think it would come so soon. Did you? I thought we'd wait. It
would have been so much more sensible!"

"I've waited a long time," said Peter.

"Poor dear!" said Leonore, putting her other hand over Peter's, which
held hers.

Peter enjoyed this exquisite pleasure in silence for a time, but the
enjoyment was too great not to be expressed So he said;

"I like your hands almost as much as your eyes."

"That's very nice," said Leonore.

"And I like the way you say 'dear,'" said Peter. "Don't you want to say
it again?"

"No, I hate people who say the same thing twice."

Then there was a long pause.

"What poor things words are?" said Peter, at the end of it.

"I know just what you mean," said Leonore.

Clearly they both meant what they said, for there came another absence
of words. How long the absence would have continued is a debatable
point. Much too soon a door opened.

"Hello!" said a voice. "Back already? What kind of an evening had you?"

"A very pleasant one," said Peter, calmly, yet expressively.

"Let go my hand, Peter, please," a voice whispered imploringly. "Oh,
please! I can't to-night. Oh, please!"

"Say 'dear,'" whispered Peter, meanly.

"Please, dear," said Leonore. Then Leonore went towards the stairs
hurriedly.

"Not off already, Dot, surely?"

"Yes. I'm going to bed."

"Come and have a cigar, Peter," said Watts, walking towards the library.

"In a moment," said Peter. He went to the foot of the stairs and said,
"Please, dear," to the figure going up.

"Well?" said the figure.

Peter went up five steps. "Please," he begged.

"No," said the figure, "but there is my hand."

So Peter turned the little soft palm uppermost and kissed it Then he
forgot the cigar and Watts. He went to his room, and thought of--of his
birthday gift.

CHAPTER LIX.

"GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY."

If Peter had roamed about the hall that evening, he was still more
restless the next morning. He was down early, thou