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It's afther sayin' itself."
"Peter, have you that opinion?"
"Yes." Peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all
in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink
marginal references to such solid works as "Wheaton," "Story," and
"Cranch's" and "Wallace's" reports. Peter had taken it practically from
a "Digest," but many apparently learned opinions come from the same
source. And the whole was given value by the last two lines, which read,
"Respectfully submitted, Peter Stirling." Peter's name had value at the
bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else.
"Look, Mr. Moriarty," cried Leonore, too full of happiness over this
decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share
it, "I've always thought I was French--though I didn't feel so a
bit--and now Mr. Stirling has made me an American, and I'm so happy. I
hate foreigners."
Watts laughed. "Why, Dot. You mustn't say that to Mr. Moriarty. He's a
foreigner himself.


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