Lispenard stayed on to see the “comedy,” and seemed to enjoy it, if the amused expression on his face when he occasionally gave himself up to meditation was any criterion. Peter had been pressed to stay beyond the original week, and had so far yielded as to add three days to his visit. These last three days were much pleasanter than those which had gone before, although Dorothy had departed and Peter liked Dorothy. But he saw much more of Miss De Voe, and Miss De Voe was in a much pleasanter mood. They took long drives and walks together, and had long hours of talk in and about the pleasant house and grounds. Miss De Voe had cut down her social duties for the ten days Peter was there, giving far more time for them to kill than usually fell to Newporters even in those comparitively simple days. In one of these talks, Miss De Voe spoke of Dorothy. “She is such a nice, sweet girl,” she said. “We all hope she’ll marry Lispenard.” “Do you think cousins ought to marry?” Miss De Voe had looked at Peter when she made her remark. Peter had replied quietly, but his question, as Miss De Voe understood it, was purely scientific, not personal. Miss De Voe replied: “I suppose it is not right, but it is so much better than what may happen, that it really seems best. It is so hard for a girl in Dorothy’s position to marry as we should altogether wish.” “Why?” asked Peter, who did not see that a girl with prospective wealth, fine social position, and personal charm, was not necessarily well situated to get the right kind of a husband. “It is hard to make it clear—but—I’ll tell you my own story, so that you can understand. Since you don’t ask questions, I will take the initiative. That is, unless your not asking them means you are not interested?” Miss De Voe laughed in the last part of this speech. “I should like to hear it.” People, no matter what Peter stated, never said “Really?” “You are in earnest?” or “You really mean it?” So Miss De Voe took him at his word.