Peter went to his room and, after a due course of clubbing and tubbing, dressed himself with the utmost care. Truth compels the confession that he looked in his glass for some minutes. Not, however, apparently with much pleasure, for an anxious look came into his face, and he remarked aloud, as he turned away, “I don’t look so old, but I once heard Watts say that I should never take a prize for my looks, and he was right. I wonder if she cares for handsome men?” Peter forgot his worry in the opening of a box in the dining-room and the taking out of the flowers. He placed the bunches at the different places, raising one of the bouquets of violets to his lips, before he laid it down. Then he took the cut flowers, and smilax, and spread them loosely in the centre of the little table, which otherwise had nothing on it, except the furnishings placed at each seat. After that he again kissed a bunch of violets. History doesn’t state whether it was the same bunch. Peter must have been very fond of flowers! “Peter,” called a voice. “Is that you, Le Grand? Go right into my room.” “I’ve done that already. You see I feel at home. How are you?” he continued, as Peter joined him in the study. “As always.” “I thought I would run in early, so as to have a bit of you before the rest. Peter, here’s a letter from Muller. He’s got that ‘Descent’ in its first state, in the most brilliant condition. You had better get it, and trash your present impression. It has always looked cheap beside the rest.” “Very well. Will you attend to it?” Just then came the sound of voices and the rustle of draperies in the little hall. “Hello! Ladies?” said Le Grand. “This is to be one of what Lispenard calls your ‘often, frequently, only once’ affairs, is it?” “I’m afraid we are early,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “We did not know how much time to allow.” “No. Such old friends cannot come too soon.” “And as it is, I’m really starved,” said another personage, shaking hands with Peter as if she had not seen him for a twelve-month instead of parting with him but two hours before. “What an appetite riding in the Park does give one! Especially when afterwards you drive, and drive, and drive, over New York stones.” “Ah,” cried Madame. “_C’est tres bien_!” “Isn’t it jolly?” responded Leonore. “But it is not American. It is Parisian.” “Oh, no, it isn’t! It’s all American. Isn’t it, Peter?” But Peter was telling Jenifer to hasten the serving of dinner. So Leonore had to fight her country’s battles by herself. “What’s all this to-day’s papers are saying, Peter?” asked Watts, as soon as they were seated. “That’s rather a large subject even for a slow dinner.” “I mean about the row in the Democratic organization over the nomination for governor?” “The papers seem to know more about it than I do,” said Peter calmly.