Miss D’Alloi looked up at Peter, to see what meaning his face gave his last remark. Then she held out her two hands. “Of course we are to be the best of friends,” she said. Peter got a really good look down into those eyes as they shook hands. The moment this matter had been settled, Leonore’s manner changed. “So this is the office of the great Peter Stirling?” she said, with the nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to Peter. “It doesn’t look it,” said Watts. “By George, with the business people say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. It’s worse even than our old Harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough.” “There is a method in its plainness. If you want style, go into Ogden’s and Rivington’s rooms.” “Why do you have the plain office, Mr. Stirling?” “I have a lot of plain people to deal with, and so I try to keep my room simple, to put them at their ease. I’ve never heard of my losing a client yet, because my room is as it is, while I should have frightened away some if I had gone in for the same magnificence as my partners.” “But I say, chum, I should think that is the sort you would want to frighten away. There can’t be any money in their business?” “We weren’t talking of money. We were talking of people. I am very glad to say, that with my success, there has been no change in my relations with my ward. They all come to me here, and feel perfectly at home, whether they come as clients, as co-workers, or merely as friends.” “Ho, ho,” laughed Watts. “You wily old fox! See the four bare walls. The one shelf of law books. The one cheap cabinet of drawers. The four simple chairs, and the plain desk. Behold the great politician! The man of the people.” Peter made no reply. But Leonore said to him, “I’m glad you help the poor people still, Mr. Stirling,” and gave Peter another glimpse of those eyes. Peter didn’t mind after that. “Look here, Dot,” said Watts. “You mustn’t call chum Mr. Stirling. That won’t do. Call him—um—call him Uncle Peter.” “I won’t,” said Leonore, delighting Peter thereby. “Let me see. What shall I call you?” she asked of Peter. “Honey,” laughed Watts. “What shall I call you?” Miss D’Alloi put her head on one side, and looked at Peter out of the corners of her eyes. “You must decide that, Miss D’Alloi.” “I suppose I must. I—think—I—shall—call—you—Peter.” She spoke hesitatingly till she said his name, but that went very smoothly. Peter on the spot fell in love with the five letters as she pronounced them. “Plain Peter?” inquired Watts. “Now what will you call me?” “Miss D’Alloi,” said Peter. “No. You—are—to—call—me—call—me—” “Miss D’Alloi,” re-affirmed Peter. “Then I will call you Mr. Stirling, Peter.” “No, you won’t.” “Why?” “Because you said you’d call me Peter.” “But not if you won’t—” “You made no condition at the time of promise. Shall I show you the law?” “No. And I shall not call you Peter, any more, Peter.” “Then I shall prosecute you.”