“Well?” said Leonore, mollifying, “what is it this time?” “I want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. I’ve received warning that I’m to be serenaded about nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to hear it.” “What fun,” cried Leonore. “Of course we’ll go. Shall you speak?” “No. We’ll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen.” “How many will there be?” “It depends on the paper you read. The ‘World’ will probably say ten thousand, the ‘Tribune’ three thousand, and the ‘Voice of Labor’ ‘a handful.’ Oh! by the way, I brought you a ‘Voice’.” He handed Leonore a paper, which he took from his pocket. Now this was simply shameful of him! Peter had found, whenever the papers really abused him, that Leonore was doubly tender to him, the more, if he pretended that the attacks and abuse pained him. So he brought her regularly now that organ of the Labor party which was most vituperative of him, and looked sad over it just as long as was possible, considering that Leonore was trying to comfort him. “Oh, dear!” said Leonore. “That dreadful paper. I can’t bear to read it. Is it very bad to-day?” “I haven’t read it,” said Peter, smiling. “I never read—” then Peter coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued—“the parts that do not speak of me.” “That isn’t a lie,” he told himself, “I don’t read them.” But he felt guilty. Clearly Peter was losing his old-time straightforwardness. “After its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those suits against Mr. Bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, I don’t believe they can say anything worse,” said Leonore, putting two lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. Then she stirred the tea, and tasted it. Then she touched the edge of the cup with her lips. “Is that right?” she asked, as she passed it to Peter. “Absolutely,” said Peter, looking the picture of bliss. But then he remembered that this wasn’t his rôle, so he looked sad and said: “That hurt me, I confess. It is so unkind.” “Poor dear,” whispered a voice. “You shall have an extra one to-day, and you shall take just as long as you want!” Now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an American newspaper, with that prospect in view? It is true that “one” is a very indefinite thing. Perhaps Leonore merely meant another cup of tea. Whatever she meant, Peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry. She rose, and as she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash. “Leonore!” cried Peter. “What—” “Peter!” cried Leonore. “Say it isn’t so?” It was terrible to see the suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice. “My darling,” cried the mother, “what is the matter?” “It can’t be,” cried Leonore. “Mamma! Papa! Say it isn’t so?” “What, my darling?” said Peter, supporting the swaying figure. “This,” said Leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper.