“Are you really so anxious to know?” he asked, surrendering without terms. He had a glorious look at those glorious eyes. “Yes,” said the dearest of all mouths. “The great panic,” said Peter, “has led to the formation of a so-called Labor party, and, from present indications, they are going to nominate a bad man. Now, there is a great attempt on foot to get the Democratic convention to endorse whomever the Labor party nominates.” “Who will that be?’” “A Stephen Maguire.” “And you don’t want him?” “No. I have never crossed his path without finding him engaged in something discreditable. But he’s truckled himself into a kind of popularity and power, and, having always been ‘a Democrat,’ he hopes to get the party to endorse him.” “Can’t you order the convention not to do it?” Peter smiled down into the eyes. “We don’t order men in this country with any success.” “But can’t you prevent them?” “I hope so. But it looks now as if I should have to do it in a way very disagreeable to myself.” “How?” “This is a great secret, you understand?” “Yes,” said Leonore, all interest and eagerness. “I can keep a secret splendidly.” “You are sure?” asked Peter. “Sure.” “So can I,” said Peter. Leonore perfectly bristled with indignation. “I won’t be treated so,” she said. “Are you going to tell me?” She put on her severest manner. “No,” said Peter. “He is obstinate,” thought Leonore to herself. Then aloud she said: “Then I shan’t be friends any more?” “That is very nice,” said Peter, soberly. “What?” said Leonore, looking at him in surprise. “I have come to the conclusion,” said Peter, “that there is no use in our trying to be friends. So we had better give up at once. Don’t you think so?” “What a pretty horse Miss Winthrop has?” said Leonore. And she never obtained an answer to her question, nor answered Peter’s. CHAPTER XLVIII. A MUTINEER. After Peter’s return from Washington, there was a settled gloom about him positively appalling. He could not be wooed, on any plea, by his closest friends, to journey up-town into the social world. He failed entirely to avail himself of the room in the Rivington’s Newport villa, though Dorothy wrote appealingly, and cited his own words to him. Even to his partners he became almost silent, except on law matters. Jenifer found that no delicacy, however rare or however well cooked and served, seemed to be noticed any more than if it was mess-pork. The only moments that this atmosphere seemed to yield at all was when Peter took a very miscellaneous collection of rubbish out of a little sachet, meant for handkerchiefs, which he now carried in his breast-pocket, and touched the various articles to his lips. Then for a time he would look a little less suicidal.