Curiously enough, two days later, his journey seemed to Peter the longest railroad ride he had ever taken. “His friend” did not meet him this time. His friend felt that her trip to New York must be offset before she could resume her proper self-respect. “He was very nice,” she had said, in monologue, “about putting the trip down to friendship. And he was very nice that morning in his study. But I think his very niceness is suspicious, and so I must be hard on him!” A woman’s reasoning is apt to seem defective, yet sometimes it solves problems not otherwise answerable. Leonore found her “hard” policy harder than she thought for. She told Peter the first evening that she was going to a card-party. “I can’t take you,” she said. “I shall be all the better for a long night’s sleep,” said Peter, calmly. This was bad enough, but the next morning, as she was arranging the flowers, she remarked to some one who stood and watched her, “Miss Winthrop is engaged. How foolish of a girl in her first season! Before she’s had any fun, to settle down to dull married life.” She had a rose in her hand, prepared to revive Peter with it, in case her speech was too much for one dose, but when she glanced at him, he was smiling happily. “What is it?” asked Leonore, disapprovingly. “I beg your pardon,” said Peter. “I wasn’t listening. Did you say Miss Winthrop was married?” “What were you smiling over?” said Leonore, in the same voice. “I was thinking of—of—.” Then Peter hesitated and laughed. “Of what?” asked Leonore. “You really mustn’t ask me,” laughed Peter. “Of what were you thinking?” “Of eyelashes,” confessed Peter. “It’s terrible!” cogitated Leonore, “I can’t snub him any more, try as I may.”