And she proceeded to revolve Valentine’s project with a deliberate, pessimistic, flaw-seeing scrutiny that would have commanded the admiration of her father and would have increased his amazement how one so strong in the head could be so weak in the heart. She questioned and cross-questioned Valentine, who, for all her cleverness, had far too much of the optimist in her composition. Beatrice had learned from her father that hope, an invaluable ally when the struggle is on, is an enemy, the worst of enemies--a traitor and a destroyer--if admitted to the counsels when the struggle is planning. So, she took the worst possible view of every phase of the proposed enterprise, and insisted that all calculation be based upon the theory that they would lose money from the start, would lose heavily, must prepare themselves to hold out for the longest possible period against not only bad business, but also bad luck. Meanwhile, Peter was engaged in strenuous combat with a generous impulse which seemed to him as out of place in his mind as an eaglet in the brood of a hen. But the impulse would not expel; it lingered obstinately, fascinating him as the idea of doing something unconventional sometimes seizes upon and obsesses a primly conventional woman. Finally, it fairly dragged him into a kind of rake’s progress of generosity--for good has its rapid road no less than evil. It put him alone in his speediest auto and, in the teeth of his dread of being seen by Richmond or by some one who would tell Richmond, drove him along the dusty highways of Northern New Jersey until he came to Deer Spring--to a charming old farmhouse in its farthermost outskirts. He went up the flowery lane to the old-fashioned porch, so cool, so quiet, so restful, behind its odorous veils of blooming creepers. A little exercise with the big brass dragon’s head that had served as knocker for the best part of a century, and a pleasant-looking old woman came round the corner of the house, wiping her hands on her kitchen apron. Said Peter: “Is Mr. Wade at home?” “Not just now,” replied she, her head thrown far back that she might inspect him through the spectacles on the end of her long, thin nose. “I reckon most likely he’s up to the studio.” “Where is it?” “You follow the path back of the house--through the woods and the hollow, then up the round-top hill. You’ll have to walk. It’s a right smart piece--about a mile and a half.” “Is there any place where I could”--Peter stopped and blushed; he had caught himself just in time to prevent the word “hide” from slipping out--“where I could put my machine?” “There’s the shed behind the house.” “Thank you.” And he sprang away to get the auto tucked out of sight.