Then he
became woe-begone. "I thought she had forgiven me," he remarked.
"What?" said the loveliest of visions from the doorway. Most women would
have told one that the beauty lay in the Parisian tea-gown. Peter knew
better. Still, he was almost willing to forgive Leonore the delay caused
by the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory. "And it
will take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway," he thought.
"Hadn't I better put some rum into it to-day?" he was asked, presently.
"You may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs," said Peter, taking
possession of that article.
"But then I can't put any sugar in."
"Fingers were made before forks," suggested Peter. "You don't want to
give me anything bitter, do you?"
"You deserve it," said Leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers,
and dropped them in the cup.
"I can't wait five years!" thought Peter, "I can't wait five
months--weeks--days--hours--minutes--sec----"
Watts saved Peter from himself by coming in here.
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