Again Leonore looked up at him. Leonore, when she glanced at a man, had the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. But she did not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the man’s remarks when she looked. We are afraid even at seventeen that Leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. During the whole of this dialogue, Peter had had only “come-and-go” glimpses of those eyes. He wanted to see more of them. He longed to lean over and turn the face up and really look down into them. Still, he could see the curly hair, and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. For the moment Peter did not agree with Mr. Weller that “life isn’t all beer and skittles.” “I’ve been so anxious to meet you. I’ve begged papa ever since we landed to take me to see you. And he’s promised me, over and over again, to do it, but something always interfered. You see, I felt very strange and—and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and I felt that I really knew you, and wouldn’t have to begin new as I do with other people. I do so dread next winter when I’m to go into society. I don’t know what I shall do, I’ll not know any one.” “You’ll know me.” “But you don’t go into society.” “Oh, yes, I do. Sometimes, that is. I shall probably go more next winter. I’ve shut myself up too much.” This was a discovery of Peter’s made in the last ten seconds. “How nice that will be! And will you promise to give me a great deal of attention?” “You’ll probably want very little. I don’t dance.” Peter suddenly became conscious that Mr. Weller was right. “But you can learn. Please. I do so love valsing.” Peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with Leonore. Was it possible life had such richness in it? Then he said with a bitter note in his voice very unusual to him: “I’m afraid I’m too old to learn.” “Not a bit,” said Leonore. “You don’t look any older than lots of men I’ve seen valsing. Young men I mean. And I’ve seen men seventy years old dancing in Europe.” Whether Peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned. But fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a stable. “Why,” said Leonore, “here we are already! What a short ride it has been.” Peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. But then he suddenly remembered that Leonore was to be lifted from her horse. He became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a military training. He put his hands up, and for a moment had—well, Peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment into words. And it was not merely that Leonore had been in his arms for a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes. “I wish you would take my horse round to the Riding Club,” he told the groom. “I wish to see Miss D’Alloi home.”