Peter's fingers closed tight: "I'm not so sure of that," he
answered gravely.
Miss Felicia had risen from her seat and was now bending over the
back of his chair, her spare sharp elbows resting on its edge, her
two hands clasping his cheeks.
"And are you really going to add this stupid boy to your string,
you goose of a Peter?" she asked in a bantering tone, as her
fingers caressed his temples. "Don't forget Mosenthal and little
Perkins, and the waiter you brought home and fed for a week, and
sent away in your best overcoat, which he pawned the next day; or
the two boys at college. Aren't you ever going to learn?" and she
leaned forward and kissed the top of his bald head.
Peter's only reply was to reach up and smooth her jewelled fingers
with his own. He remembered them all; there was an excuse, of
course, he reminded her, for his action in each and every case.
But for him Mosenthal--really a great violinist--would have
starved, little Perkins would have been sent to the reformatory,
and the waiter to the dogs.
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