“I suppose it is,” said Peter, “but I love you and can’t help telling it. Why shouldn’t one tell one’s love as soon as one feels it? It’s the finest thing a man can tell a woman.” “Oh, please don’t,” begged Miss Pierce, her eyes full of tears in sympathy for him. “You make it so hard for me to say that—that you mustn’t” “I really didn’t think you could care for me—as I cared for you,” replied Peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last speech. “Girls have never liked me.” Miss Pierce began to sob. “It’s all a mistake. A dreadful mistake,” she cried, “and it is my fault.” “Don’t say that,” said Peter, “It’s nothing but my blundering.” They walked on in silence to the Shrubberies, but as they came near to the glare of the lighted doorway, Peter halted a moment. “Do you think,” he asked, “that it could ever be different?” “No,” replied Miss Pierce. “Because, unless there is—is some one else,” continued Peter, “I shall not——” “There is,” interrupted Miss Pierce, the determination in Peter’s voice frightening her info disclosing her secret. Peter said to himself, “It is Watts after all.” He was tempted to say it aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so. But he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman. Instead he said, “Thank you.” Then he braced himself, and added: “Please don’t let my love cause you any sorrow. It has been nothing but a joy to me. Good-night and good-bye.” He did not even offer to shake hands in parting. They went into the hallway together, and leaving the rest of the party, who were already raiding the larder for an impromptu supper, to their own devices, they passed upstairs, Miss Pierce to bathe her eyes and Peter to pack his belongings. “Where are Helen and Stirling?” inquired Mr. Pierce when the time came to serve out the Welsh rarebit he was tending. “They’ll be along presently,” said Watts. “Helen forgot something, and they went back after it.” “They will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the rarebit, if they don’t hurry. And as we are all agreed that Stirling is somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure from the longer stroll to reward him for that. There, ladies and gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the absent ones regret their foolishness. As the gourmand says in ‘Richelieu,’ ‘What’s diplomacy compared to a delicious pâté?’” CHAPTER VII. FACING THE WORLD. Army surgeons recognize three types of wounded. One type so nervous, that it drops the moment it is struck, whether the wound is disabling or not. Another so nerveless, that it fights on, unconscious that it has been hit. A third, who, feeling the wound, goes on fighting, sustained by its nerve. It is over the latter sort that the surgeons shake their heads and look anxious.