It was a sore temptation to Peter, but he answered quickly, “Thank you for the thought, but I won’t this evening.” “You have smoked after dinner already?” “No. I tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew and sleeted too hard.” “Then you had better.” “Thank you, no.” Miss De Voe thought her former thought again. “Where do you generally dine?” she asked. “I have no regular place. Just where I happen to be.” “And to-night?” Peter was not good at dodging. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I saw rather a curious thing, as I was walking up. Would you like to hear about it?” Miss De Voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularly interested in what Peter had to tell her, in response to her “yes.” It concerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness. “I didn’t think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen,” Peter concluded, “and I told the policeman it was a case for an ambulance rather than a station-house. He didn’t agree, so I had to go with them both to the precinct and speak to the superintendent.” “That was before your dinner?” asked Miss De Voe, calmly. It was a very easily answered question, apparently, but Peter was silent again. “It was coming up here,” he said finally. “What is he trying to keep back?” asked Miss De Voe mentally. “I suppose some of the down-town places are not quite—but he wouldn’t—” then she said out loud: “I wonder if you men do as women do, when they dine alone? Just live on slops. Now, what did you order to-night? Were you an ascetic or a sybarite?” “Usually,” said Peter, “I eat a very simple dinner.” “And to-night?” “Why do you want to know about to-day?” “Because I wish to learn where you dined, and thought I could form some conclusion from your menu.” Miss De Voe laughed, so as to make it appear a joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving. “I didn’t reply to your question,” said Peter, “because I would have preferred not. But if you really wish to know, I’ll answer it.” “Yes. I should like to know.” Miss De Voe still smiled. “I haven’t dined.” “Mr. Stirling! You are joking?” Miss De Voe’s smile had ended, and she was sitting up very straight in her chair. Women will do without eating for an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of a hungry man fills them with horror—unless they have the wherewithal to mitigate the consequent appetite. Hunger with woman, as regards herself, is “a theory.” As regards a man it is “a condition.” “No,” said Peter. Miss De Voe touched the bell again, but quickly as Morden answered it, Peter was already speaking. “You are not to trouble yourself on my account, Miss De Voe. I wish for nothing.” “You must have—” Peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word “Nothing.” “But I shall not have a moment’s pleasure in your call if I think of you as—” Peter interrupted again. “If that is so,” he said, rising, “I had better go.”