But even without all this, Peter carried the answer to the puzzle about with him in his own person. Leonore could not but feel the difference in the way he treated, and talked, and looked at her, as compared to all about her. It is true he was no more demonstrative, than with others; his face held its quiet, passive look, and he spoke in much the usual, quiet, even tone of voice. Yet Leonore was at first dimly conscious, and later certain, that there was a shade of eagerness in his manner, a tenderness in his voice, and a look in his eye, when he was with her, that was there in the presence of no one else. So Leonore ceased to puzzle over the problem at a given point, having found the answer. But the solving did not bring her much apparent pleasure. “Oh, dear!” she remarked to herself. “I thought we were going to be such good friends! That we could tell each other everything. And now he’s gone and spoiled it. Probably, too, he’ll be bothering me later, and then he’ll be disappointed, and cross, and we shan’t be good friends any more. Oh, dear! Why do men have to behave so? Why can’t they just be friends?” It is a question which many women have asked. The query indicates a degree of modesty which should make the average masculine blush at his own self-love. The best answer to the problem we can recommend to the average woman is a careful and long study of a mirror. As a result of this cogitation Leonore decided that she would nip Peter’s troublesomeness in the bud, that she would put up a sign, “Trespassing forbidden;” by which he might take warning. Many women have done the same thing to would-be lovers, and have saved the lovers much trouble and needless expense. But Leonore, after planning out a dialogue in her room, rather messed it when she came to put it into actual public performance. Few girls of eighteen are cool over a love-affair. And so it occurred thusly: Leonore said to Peter one day, when he had dropped in for a cup of afternoon tea after his ride with her: “If I ask you a question, I wonder if you will tell me what you think, without misunderstanding why I tell you something?” “I will try.” “Well,” said Leonore, “there is a very nice Englishman whom I knew in London, who has followed me over here, and is troubling me. He’s dreadfully poor, and papa says he thinks he is after my money. Do you think that can be so?” So far the public performance could not have gone better if it had been rehearsed. But at this point, the whole programme went to pieces. Peter’s cup of tea fell to the floor with a crash, and he was leaning back in his chair, with a look of suffering on his face. “Peter,” cried Leonore, “what is it?” “Excuse me,” said Peter, rallying a little. “Ever since an operation on my eyes they sometimes misbehave themselves. It’s neuralgia of the optic nerve. Sometimes it pains me badly. Don’t mind me. It will be all right in a minute if I’m quiet.” “Can’t I do anything?”