ntertainment was not to be held at the
young actor's lodgings but at some tavern or restaurant the name of
which he had not heeded. Suddenly, however, Peter became aware with joy
that this name didn't matter, for there was something at the garden door
at last. He rushed out before she had had time to ring, and saw as she
stepped from the carriage that she was alone. Now that she was there,
that he had this evidence she had listened to him and trusted him, all
his impatience and bitterness gave way and a flood of pleading
tenderness took their place in the first words he spoke to her. It was
far "dearer" of her than he had any right to dream, but she was the best
and kindest creature--this showed it--as well as the most wonderful. He
was really not off his head with his contradictory ways; no, before
heaven he wasn't, and he would explain, he would make everything clear.
Everything was changed.

She stopped short in the little dusky garden, looking at him in the
light of the open window. Then she called back to the coachman--they had
left the garden door open--"Wait for me, mind; I shall want you again."

"What's the matter--won't you stay?" Peter asked. "Are you going out
again at this absurd hour? I won't hurt you," he gently urged. And he
went back and closed the garden door. He wanted to say to the coachman,
"It's no matter--please drive away." At the same time he wouldn't for
the world have done anything offensive to her.

"I've come because I thought it better to-night, as things have turned
out, to do the thing you ask me, whatever it may be," she had already
begun. "That's probably what you calculated I would think, eh? What this
evening has been you've seen, and I must allow that your hand's in it.
That you know for yourself--that you doubtless felt as you sat there.
But I confess I don't imagine what you want of me here now," she added.
She had remained standing in the path.

Peter felt the irony of her "now" and how it made a fool of him, but he
had been prepared for this and for much worse. He had begged her not to
think him a fool, but in truth at present he cared little if she did.
Very likely he was--in spite of his plea that everything was changed: he
cared little even himself. However, he spoke in the tone of intense
reason and of the fullest disposition to satisfy her. This lucidity only
took still more from the dignity of his change of front: his separation
from her the day before had had such prete