“It isn’t her beauty and grace alone”—(It never is with a man, oh, no!)—“but her truth and frankness and friendliness. And then she doesn’t care for money, and she isn’t eaten up with ambition. She is absolutely untouched by the world yet. Then she is natural, yet reserved, with other men. She’s not husband-hunting, like so many of them. And she’s loving, not merely of those about her, but of everything.” Musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited variations. This was what Peter proceeded to do. From Fifty-seventh Street to Peter’s rooms was a matter of four miles. Peter had not half finished his thematic treatment of Leonore when he reached his quarters. He sat down before his fire, however, and went on, not with hope of exhausting all possible variations, but merely for his own pleasure. Finally, however, he rose and put photographs, rose, and card away. “I’ve not allowed myself to yield to it,” he said (which was a whopper) “till I was sure she was what I could always love. Now I shall do my best to make her love me.” CHAPTER XLIV. A GOOD DAY. The next day it was raining torrents, but despite this, and to the utter neglect of his law business, Peter drove up-town immediately after lunch, to the house in Fifty-seventh Street. He asked for Watts, but while he was waiting for the return of the servant, he heard a light foot-step, and turning, he found Leonore fussing over some flowers. At the same moment she became conscious of his presence. “Good-day,” said Peter. “It isn’t a good day at all,” said Leonore, in a disconsolate voice, holding out her hand nevertheless. “Why not?” “It’s a horrid day, and I’m in disgrace.” “For what?” “For misbehaving last night. Both mamma and madame say I did very wrong. I never thought I couldn’t be real friends with you.” The little lips were trembling slightly. Peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. “Why can’t the women let such an innocent child alone?” he thought to himself. Aloud he said, “If any wrong was done, which I don’t think, it was my fault. Can I do anything?” “I don’t believe so,” said Leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her voice. “They say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won’t permit it for a moment.” Peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: “I am so sorry they blame you. If I could only save you from it.” He evidently said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle. “You see,” said Leonore, “I’ve always been very particular with men, but with you it seemed different. Yet they both say I stayed too long upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. They said I ought to treat you like other men. Don’t you think you are different?” Yes. Peter thought he was very different. “Mr. D’Alloi will see you in the library,” announced the footman at this point.