The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him Part 31

"I wish," said Miss De Voe, still speaking low, "that the next time you feel so you would come and see me."

"I will," said Peter.

When they parted at the door, Peter thanked Lispenard: "I've really learned a good deal, thanks to Miss De Voe and you. I've seen the pictures with eyes that know much more about them than mine do."

"Well, we'll have to have another turn some day. We're always in search of listeners."

"If you come and see me, Mr. Stirling," said Miss De Voe, "you shall see my pictures. Good-bye."

"So that is your Democratic heeler?" said Lispenard, eyeing Peter's retreating figure through the carriage window.

"Don't call him that, Lispenard," said Miss De Voe, wincing.

Lispenard laughed, and leaned back into a comfortable att.i.tude. "Then that's your protector of sick kittens?"

Miss De Voe made no reply. She was thinking of that dreary wintry stretch of sand and dune.

Thus it came to pa.s.s that a week later, when a north-easter had met a south-wester overhead and both in combination had turned New York streets into a series of funnels, in and through which wind, sleet and snow fought for possession, to the almost absolute dispossession of humanity and horses, that Peter ended a long stare at his blank wall by putting on his dress-suit, and plunging into the streets. He had, very foolishly, decided to omit dinner, a couple of hours before, rather than face the storm, and a north-east wind and an empty stomach are enough to set any man staring at nothing, if that dangerous inclination is at all habitual. Peter realized this, for the opium eater is always keenly alive to the dangers of the drug. Usually he fought the tendency bravely, but this night he felt too tired to fight himself, and preferred to battle with a little thing like a New York storm. So he struggled through the deserted streets until he had reached his objective point in the broad Second Avenue house. Miss De Voe was at home, but was "still at dinner."

Peter vacillated, wondering what the correct thing was under the circ.u.mstances. The footman, remembering him of old, and servants in those simple days being still open to impressions, suggested that he wait. Peter gladly accepted the idea. But he did not wait, for hardly had the footman left him than that functionary returned, to tell Peter that Miss De Voe would see him in the dining-room.

"I asked you to come in here, because I'm sure, after venturing out such a night, you would like an extra cup of coffee," Miss De Voe explained.

"You need not sit at the table. Morden, put a chair by the fire."

So Peter found himself sitting in front of a big wood-fire, drinking a cup of coffee decidedly better in quality than his home-brew. Blank walls ceased to have any particular value for the time.

In a moment Miss De Voe joined him at the fire. A small table was moved up, and a plate of fruit, and a cup of coffee placed upon it.

"That is all, Morden," she said. "It is so nice of you to have come this evening. I was promising myself a very solitary time, and was dawdling over my dinner to kill some of it. Isn't it a dreadful night?"

"It's blowing hard. Two or three times I thought I should have to give it up."

"You didn't walk?"

"Yes. I could have taken a solitary-car that pa.s.sed, but the horses were so done up that I thought I was better able to walk."

Miss De Voe touched the bell. "Another cup of coffee, Morden, and bring the cognac," she said. "I am not going to let you please your mother to-night," she told Peter. "I am going to make you do what I wish." So she poured a liberal portion of the eau-de-vie into Peter's second cup, and he most dutifully drank it. "How funny that he should be so obstinate sometimes, and so obedient at others," thought Miss De Voe. "I don't generally let men smoke, but I'm going to make an exception to-night in your case," she continued.

It was a sore temptation to Peter, but he answered quickly, "Thank you for the thought, but I won't this evening."

"You have smoked after dinner already?"

"No. I tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew and sleeted too hard."

"Then you had better."

"Thank you, no."

Miss De Voe thought her former thought again.

"Where do you generally dine?" she asked.

"I have no regular place. Just where I happen to be."

"And to-night?"

Peter was not good at dodging. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I saw rather a curious thing, as I was walking up. Would you like to hear about it?"

Miss De Voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularly interested in what Peter had to tell her, in response to her "yes." It concerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness.

"I didn't think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen," Peter concluded, "and I told the policeman it was a case for an ambulance rather than a station-house. He didn't agree, so I had to go with them both to the precinct and speak to the superintendent."

"That was before your dinner?" asked Miss De Voe, calmly.

It was a very easily answered question, apparently, but Peter was silent again.

"It was coming up here," he said finally.

"What is he trying to keep back?" asked Miss De Voe mentally. "I suppose some of the down-town places are not quite--but he wouldn't--" then she said out loud: "I wonder if you men do as women do, when they dine alone? Just live on slops. Now, what did you order to-night? Were you an ascetic or a sybarite?"

"Usually," said Peter, "I eat a very simple dinner."

"And to-night?"

"Why do you want to know about to-day?"

"Because I wish to learn where you dined, and thought I could form some conclusion from your menu." Miss De Voe laughed, so as to make it appear a joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving.

"I didn't reply to your question," said Peter, "because I would have preferred not. But if you really wish to know, I'll answer it."

"Yes. I should like to know." Miss De Voe still smiled.

"I haven't dined."

"Mr. Stirling! You are joking?" Miss De Voe's smile had ended, and she was sitting up very straight in her chair. Women will do without eating for an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of a hungry man fills them with horror--unless they have the wherewithal to mitigate the consequent appet.i.te. Hunger with woman, as regards herself, is "a theory." As regards a man it is "a condition."

"No," said Peter.

Miss De Voe touched the bell again, but quickly as Morden answered it, Peter was already speaking.

"You are not to trouble yourself on my account, Miss De Voe. I wish for nothing."

"You must have--"

Peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word "Nothing."

"But I shall not have a moment's pleasure in your call if I think of you as--"

Peter interrupted again. "If that is so," he said, rising, "I had better go."