Unlike his mind and most of the rest of his character, Peter’s vanity was far from rudimentary. Those born to wealth or position get a quaintly false notion of their own intrinsic importance--just as a prize milcher probably mistakes the reason for the assiduous attention of which she is the subject--the care with which she is washed and curried and fed, humored and petted, ever spoken to caressingly and considerately. Peter’s vanity was as highly sensitized as the sole of the foot. He was constantly alternating between ecstasy and torment, according as he interpreted the actions of those about him--for he assumed that everyone was thinking of him all the time, that whatever was said was a compliment for him or an envious fling at him. Otherwise, one might travel far and search diligently without finding so amiable, so kindly a fellow as he. His extreme caution with money--except in self-indulgence, of course--did not produce any disagreeable effect upon his associates; they either were rich, young men, trained like himself to suspect everyone of trying to “trim” them, or were parasites upon the rich, accustomed to the penurious ways of the rich and rather admiring stinginess as evidence of strength of character. And it certainly was evidence of admirable prudence; for the merely rich man shorn of his riches is in much the same plight as a dog with its tail cut off close behind its ears. When Peter and Beatrice went for a walk, Peter after a while noted the retainer of Richmond’s personal staff lingering with unobtrusive persistence in the offing. “Why’s that fellow skulking after us?” inquired he. Beatrice laughed. “Oh, father’s nerves.” “About cranks and anarchists and socialists--eh? Well, I don’t wonder. The lower classes are getting damned impertinent in this country. I’m strongly tempted to go to England to live. There’s the only place on earth where a gentleman can count on being treated like one all the time.” “Yes, it is comfortable,” said the girl. “Except the climate!” “That is rotten--isn’t it?... I wish the fellow would drop us.” Peter halted, frowning at the distant figure. “I think I’ll call out to him.” “Oh, don’t bother,” said Beatrice. “He’s doing no harm.” “But I feel as if we were being spied on.” “What of it?” cried she with a radiant smile. “We’re not going to do anything that anybody mightn’t see.” “But I’ve got some things to say to you--came down especially to say ’em.” “Are they things that have to be shouted?” “No--but--he makes me uneasy--and there’s you. You’ve got a way of looking and talking--as if you weren’t taking anything seriously.” She was smiling as he spoke. But if he had been a close observer he might have seen an expression of a quite different character veiled by the laughter of lips and eyes.