“No. I have an eye-wash which I used to carry with me, but it is so long since I have had a return of my trouble that I have stopped carrying it.” “What causes it?” “Usually a shock. It’s purely nervous.” “But there was no shock now, was there?” said Leonore, feeling so guilty that she felt it necessary to pretend innocence. Peter pulled himself together instantly and, leaning over, began deliberately to gather up the fragments of the cup. Then he laid the pieces on the tea-table and said: “I was dreadfully frightened when I felt the cup slipping. It was very stupid in me. Will you try to forgive me for breaking one of your pretty set?” “That’s nothing,” said Leonore. To herself that young lady remarked, “Oh, dear! It’s much worse than I thought. I shan’t dare say it to him, after all” But she did, for Peter helped her, by going back to her original question, saying bravely: “I don’t know enough about Mr. Max —— the Englishman, to speak of him, but I think I would not suspect men of that, even if they are poor.” “Why not?” “Because it would be much easier, to most men, to love you than to love your money.” “You think so?” “Yes.” “I’m so glad. I felt so worried over it. Not about this case, for I don’t care for him, a bit. But I wondered if I had to suspect every man who came near me.” Peter’s eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods. Then at last Leonore made the remark towards which she had been working. At twenty-five Leonore would have been able to say it without so dangerous a preamble. “I don’t want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone,” she said. “I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying for at least five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,” Five years! Peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling. He would like to claim that bit of womanhood as his own that moment, and she could talk of five years! It was the clearest possible indication to Peter that Leonore was heart-whole. “No one, who is in love,” he thought, “could possibly talk of five years, or five months even.” When Peter got back to his chambers that afternoon, he was as near being despairing as he had been since—since—a long time ago. Even the obvious fact, that, if Leonore was not in love with him, she was also not in love with any one else, did not cheer him. There is a flag in the navy known as the Blue-Peter. That evening, Peter could have supplied our whole marine, with considerable bunting to spare. But even worse was in store for him on the morrow. When he joined Leonore in the Park that day, she proved to him that woman has as much absolute brutality as the lowest of prize-fighters. Women get the reputation of being less brutal, because of their dread of blood-letting. Yet when it comes to torturing the opposite sex in its feelings, they are brutes compared with their sufferers.