this apparent refutation of her theory of his apparel, and shook her head.
“Do be serious, Peter. You'd make much more of an impression on people if you wore clothes that had—well, a little more distinction.”
“What's the use of making an impression if you can't follow it up?” he said.
“You can,” she declared. “I never thought of it until to-night, but you must have a great deal in you to have risen all the way from an errand boy in the bank to a lawyer.”
“Look out!” he cautioned her; “I shall become insupportably conceited.”
“A little more conceit wouldn't hurt you,” said Honora, critically. “You'll forgive me, Peter, if I tell you from time to time what I think. It's for your own good.”
“I try to realize that,” replied Peter, humbly. “How do you wish me to dress—like Mr. Rossiter?”
The picture evoked of Peter arrayed like Mr. Harland Rossiter, who had sent flowers to two generations and was preparing to send more to a third, was irresistible. Every city, hamlet, and village has its Harland Rossiter. He need not be explained. But Honora soon became grave again.
“No, but you ought to dress as though you were somebody, and different from the ordinary man on the street.”
“But I'm not,” objected Peter.
“Oh,” cried Honora, “don't you want to be? I can't understand any man not wanting to be. If I were a man, I wouldn't stay here a day longer than I had to.”
Peter was silent as they went in at the gate and opened the door, for on this festive occasion they were provided with a latchkey. He turned up the light in the hall to behold a transformation quite as wonderful as any contained in the “Arabian Nights” or Keightley's “Fairy Mythology.” This was not the Honora with whom he had left the house scarce three hours before! The cambric dress, to be sure, was still no longer than the tops of her ankles and the hair still hung in a heavy braid down her back. These were positively all that remained of the original Honora, and the change had occurred in the incredibly brief space required for the production of the opera “Pinafore.” This Honora was a woman in a strange and disturbing state of exaltation, whose eyes beheld a vision. And Peter, although he had been the subject of her conversation, well knew that he was not included in the vision. He smiled a little as he looked at her. It is becoming apparent that he is one of those unfortunate unimaginative beings incapable of great illusions.
“You're not going!” she exclaimed.
He glanced significantly at the hall clock.
“Why, it's long after bedtime, Honora.”
“I don't want to go to bed. I feel like talking,” she declared. “Come, let's sit on the steps awhile. If you go home, I shan't go to sleep for hours, Peter.”
“And what would Aunt Mary say to me?” he inquired.
“Oh, she wouldn't care. She wouldn't even know it.”
He shook his head, still smiling.
“I'd never be allowed to take you to Uhrig's Cave, or anywhere else, again,” he replied. “I'll come to-morrow evening, and you can talk to me then.”
“I shan't feel like it then,” she said in a tone that implied his opportunity was now or never. But seeing him still obdurate, with startling suddenness she flung her arms mound his neck—a method which at times had succeeded marvellously—and pleaded coaxingly: “Only a quarter of an hour, Peter. I've got so many things to say, and I know I shall forget them by to-morrow.”
It was a night of wonders. To her astonishment the hitherto pliant Peter, who only existed in order to do her will, became transformed into a brusque masculine creature which she did not recognize. With a movement that was almost rough he released himself and fled, calling back a “good night” to her out of the darkness. He did not even wait to assist her in the process of locking up. Honora, profoundly puzzled, stood for a while in the doorway gazing out into the night. When at length she turned, she had forgotten him entirely.
It was true that she did not sleep for hours, and on awaking the next morning another phenomenon awaited her. The “little house under the hill” was immeasurably shrunken. Poor Aunt Mary, who did not understand that a performance of “Pinafore” could give birth to the unfulfilled longings which result in the creation of high things, spoke to Uncle Tom a week later concerning an astonishing and apparently abnormal access of industry.
“She's been reading all day long, Tom, or else shut up in her room, where Catherine tells me she is writing. I'm afraid Eleanor Hanbury is right when she says I don't understand the child. And yet she is the same to me as though she were my own.”
It was true that Honora was writing, and that the door was shut, and that she did not feel the heat. In one of the bookcases she had chanced upon that immortal biography of Dr. Johnson, and upon the letters of another prodigy of her own sex, Madame d'Arblay, whose romantic debut as an authoress was inspiration in itself. Honora actually quivered when she read of Dr. Johnson's first conversation with Miss Burney. To write a book of the existence of which even one's own family did not know, to publish it under a nom de plume, and to awake one day to fetes and fame would be indeed to live!
Unfortunately Honora's novel no longer exists, or the world might have discovered a second Evelina. A regard for truth compels the statement that it was never finished. But what rapture while the fever lasted! Merely to take up the pen was to pass magically through marble portals into the great world itself.
The Sir Charles Grandison of this novel was, needless to say, not Peter Erwin. He was none other than Mr. Randolph Leffingwell, under a very thin disguise.
CHAPTER V. IN WHICH PROVIDENCE BEEPS FAITH
Two more years have gone by, limping in the summer and flying in the winter, two more years of conquests. For our heroine appears to be one of the daughters of Helen, born to make trouble for warriors and others—and even for innocent bystanders like Peter Erwin. Peter was debarred from entering those brilliant lists in which apparel played so great a part. George Hanbury, Guy Rossiter, Algernon Cartwright, Eliphalet Hopper Dwyer—familiarly known as “Hoppy”—and other young gentlemen whose names are now but memories, each had his brief day of triumph. Arrayed like Solomon in wonderful clothes from the mysterious and luxurious East, they returned at Christmas-tide and Easter from college to break lances over Honora. Let us say it boldly—she was like that: she had the world-old knack of sowing discord and despair in the souls of young men. She was—as those who had known that fascinating gentleman were not slow to remark—Randolph Leffingwell over again.
During the festival seasons, Uncle Tom averred, they wore out the latch on the front gate. If their families possessed horses to spare, they took Honora driving in Forest Park; they escorted her to those anomalous dances peculiar to their innocent age, which are neither children's parties nor full-fledged balls; their presents, while of no intrinsic value—as one young gentleman said in a presentation speech—had an enormous, if shy, significance.
“What a beautiful ring you are wearing, Honora,” Uncle Tom remarked slyly one April morning at breakfast; “let me see it.”
Honora blushed, and hid her hand under the table-cloth.
And the ring-suffice it to say that her little finger was exactly insertable in a ten-cent piece from which everything had been removed but the milling: removed with infinite loving patience by Mr. Rossiter, and at the expense of much history and philosophy and other less important things, in his college bedroom at New Haven. Honora wore it for a whole week; a triumph indeed for Mr. Rossiter; when it was placed in a box in Honora's bedroom, which contained other gifts—not all from him—and many letters, in the writing of which