Garry had said "gratitude," too, and so had Corinne, and
all the rest of them. Peter had never talked gratitude; dear
Peter, who had done more for him than anybody in the world except
his own father. Peter wanted his love if he wanted anything, and
that was what he was going to give him--big, broad, all-absorbing
LOVE. And he did love him. Even his wrinkled hands, so soft and
white, and his glistening head, and his dabs of gray whiskers, and
his sweet, firm, human mouth were precious to him. Peter--his
friend, his father, his comrade! Could he ever insult him by such
a mean, cowardly feeling as gratitude? And was the woman he loved
as he loved nothing else in life--was she--was Ruth going to
belittle their relations with the same substitute? It was a big
pin, that which Miss Felicia had impaled him on, and it is no
wonder the poor fluttering wings were nigh exhausted in the
struggle!
Relief came at last.
"And now what shall I tell her?" asked Miss Felicia. "She worries
more over you than she does over her father; she can get hold of
him any minute, but you won't be presentable for a week.
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