“That’s very nice. I don’t want you to be formal with us. Do say that you can stay to dinner?” “I would, if I were not already engaged.” “Then we’ll merely postpone it. It’s very good of you to come to see us. I’ve tried to get Watts to look you up, but he is so lazy! It’s just as well since you’ve found us out. Only you should have asked for both of us.” “I came on business,” said Peter. Mrs. D’Alloi laughed. “Watts is the poorest man in the world for that, but he’ll do anything he can to help you, I know. He has the warmest feeling for you.” Peter gathered from this that Mrs. D’Alloi did not know of the “scrape,” whatever it was, and with a lawyer’s caution, he did not attempt to disabuse her of the impression that he had called about his own affairs. “How you have changed!” Mrs. D’Alloi continued. “If I had not known who it was from the card, I am not sure that I should have recognized you.” It was just what Peter had been saying to himself of Mrs. D’Alloi. Was it her long ill-health, or was it the mere lapse of years, which had wrought such changes in her? Except for the eyes, everything had altered. The cheeks had lost their roundness and color; the hair had thinned noticeably; lines of years and pain had taken away the sweet expression that formerly had counted for so much; the pretty roundness of the figure was gone, and what charm it now had was due to the modiste’s skill. Peter felt puzzled. Was this the woman for whom he had so suffered? Was it this memory that had kept him, at thirty-eight, still a bachelor? Like many another man, he found that he had been loving an ideal—a creation of his own mind. He had, on a boyish fancy, built a dream of a woman with every beauty and attraction, and had been loving it for many years, to the exclusion of all other womankind. Now he saw the original of his dream, with the freshness and glamour gone, not merely from the dream, but from his own eyes. Peter had met many pretty girls, and many sweet ones since that week at the Pierces. He had gained a very different point of view of women from that callow time. Peter was not blunderer enough to tell Mrs. D’Alloi that he too, saw a change. His years had brought tact, if they had not made him less straightforward. So he merely said, “You think so?” “Ever so much. You’ve really grown slender, in spite of your broad shoulders—and your face is so—so different.”