“Yes, you can. You must leave to-morrow and make them.” “I can’t,” groaned Peter. “You must.” “Who says so?” “I do. Please, Peter? I so want to see you win. I shall never forgive myself if I defeat you.” “But a whole week,” groaned Peter. “We shall break up here on the eighteenth, and of course you would have to leave a day sooner. So you’ll not be any better off.” “Well,” sighed Peter, “If I do as you want, will you give me the seven I shall lose before I go.” “Dear me, Peter,” sighed Leonore, “you oughtn’t to ask them, since it’s for your own sake. I can’t keep you contented. You do nothing but encroach.” “I should get them if I was here,” said Peter, “And one a day is little enough! I think, if I oblige you by going away, I shouldn’t be made to suffer more than is necessary.” “I’m going to call you Growley,” said Leonore, patting him on the cheek. Then she put her own against it. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “It’s just as hard for me.” So Peter buckled on his armor and descended into the arena. Whether he spoke well or ill, we leave it to those to say who care to turn back to the files of the papers of that campaign. Perhaps, however, it may be well to add that an entirely unbiassed person, after reading his opening speeches, delivered in the Cooper Union and the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York City, wrote him: “It is libel to call you Taciturnity. They are splendid! How I wish I could hear you—and see you, dear. I’m very lonely, and so are Bêtise and Tawney-eye. We do nothing but wander round the house all day, waiting for your letter, and the papers.” Three thousand people in the Brooklyn Rink were kept waiting for nearly ten minutes by Peter’s perusal of that letter. But when he had finished it, and had reached the Rink, he out-Stirlinged Stirling. A speaker nowadays speaks far more to the people absent than to the people present. Peter did this that evening. He spoke, it is true, to only one person that night, but it was the best speech of the campaign. A week later, Peter rang the bell of the Fifty-seventh Street house. He was in riding costume, although he had not been riding. “Mr. and Mrs. D’Alloi are at breakfast,” he was informed. Peter rather hurriedly laid his hat and crop on the hall-table, and went through the hall, but his hurry suddenly came to an end, when a young lady, carrying her napkin, added herself to the vista. “I knew it must be you,” she said, offering her hand very properly—(on what grounds Leonore surmised that a ring at the door-bell at nine o’clock meant Peter, history does not state)—“I wondered if you knew enough to come to breakfast. Mamma sent me out to say that you are to come right in.” Peter was rather longer over the handshake than convention demands, but he asked very politely, “How are your father and—?” But just then the footman closed a door behind him, and Peter’s interest in parents suddenly ceased.