“A bullet.” “Peter!” “Yes. Your luck-piece stopped it, or I shouldn’t be here.” “There,” said Leonore triumphantly, “I said you weren’t hurt, when the news of the shooting came, because I knew you had it. I was so glad you had taken it!” “I am going to give it back to you by and by,” said Peter. “I had rather that you should have it,” said Leonore. “I want you to have my luck.” “I shall have it just the same even after I’ve given it to you,” said Peter. “How?” “I’m going to have it made into a plain gold ring,” replied Peter, “and when I give it to you, I shall have all your luck.” Then came a silence. Finally Peter said, “Will you please tell me what you meant by talking about five years!” “Oh! Really, Peter,” Leonore hastened to explain, in an anxious way, as if Peter had charged her with murder or some other heinous crime. “I did think so. I didn’t find it out till—till that night. Really! Won’t you believe me?” Peter smiled. He could have believed anything. “Now,” he said, “I know at last what Anarchists are for.” His ready acceptance of her statement made Leonore feel a slight prick of conscience. She said: “Well—Peter—I mean—that is—at least, I did sometimes think before then—that when I married, I’d marry you—but I didn’t think it would come so soon. Did you? I thought we’d wait. It would have been so much more sensible!” “I’ve waited a long time,” said Peter. “Poor dear!” said Leonore, putting her other hand over Peter’s, which held hers. Peter enjoyed this exquisite pleasure in silence for a time, but the enjoyment was too great not to be expressed So he said; “I like your hands almost as much as your eyes.” “That’s very nice,” said Leonore. “And I like the way you say ‘dear,’” said Peter. “Don’t you want to say it again?” “No, I hate people who say the same thing twice.” Then there was a long pause. “What poor things words are?” said Peter, at the end of it. “I know just what you mean,” said Leonore. Clearly they both meant what they said, for there came another absence of words. How long the absence would have continued is a debatable point. Much too soon a door opened. “Hello!” said a voice. “Back already? What kind of an evening had you?” “A very pleasant one,” said Peter, calmly, yet expressively. “Let go my hand, Peter, please,” a voice whispered imploringly. “Oh, please! I can’t to-night. Oh, please!” “Say ‘dear,’” whispered Peter, meanly. “Please, dear,” said Leonore. Then Leonore went towards the stairs hurriedly. “Not off already, Dot, surely?” “Yes. I’m going to bed.” “Come and have a cigar, Peter,” said Watts, walking towards the library. “In a moment,” said Peter. He went to the foot of the stairs and said, “Please, dear,” to the figure going up. “Well?” said the figure. Peter went up five steps. “Please,” he begged. “No,” said the figure, “but there is my hand.”