The rapture of a young lady of temperament is a difficult thing to picture.  The bird may feel it as he soars, on a bright August morning, high above amber cliffs jutting out into indigo seas; the novelist may feel it when the four walls of his room magically disappear and the profound secrets of the universe are on the point of revealing themselves.  Honora gazed, and listened, and lost herself.  She was no longer in Uhrig’s Cave, but in the great world, her soul a-quiver with harmonies.

“Pinafore,” although a comic opera, held something tragic for Honora, and opened the flood-gates to dizzy sensations which she did not understand.  How little Peter, who drummed on the table to the tune of: 

       “Give three cheers and one cheer more
        For the hearty captain of the Pinafore,”

imagined what was going on beside him!  There were two factors in his pleasure; he liked the music, and he enjoyed the delight of Honora.

What is Peter?  Let us cease looking at him through Honora’s eyes and taking him like daily bread, to be eaten and not thought about.  From one point of view, he is twenty-nine and elderly, with a sense of humour unsuspected by young persons of temperament.  Strive as we will, we have only been able to see him in his role of Providence, or of the piper.  Has he no existence, no purpose in life outside of that perpetual gentleman in waiting?  If so, Honora has never considered it.

After the finale had been sung and the curtain dropped for the last time, Honora sighed and walked out of the garden as one in a trance.  Once in a while, as he found a way for them through the crowd, Peter glanced down at her, and something like a smile tugged at the corners of a decidedly masculine mouth, and lit up his eyes.  Suddenly, at Locust Street, under the lamp, she stopped and surveyed him.  She saw a very real, very human individual, clad in a dark nondescript suit of clothes which had been bought ready-made, and plainly without the bestowal of much thought, on Fifth Street.  The fact that they were a comparative fit was in itself a tribute to the enterprise of the Excelsior Clothing Company, for Honora’s observation that he was too long one way had been just.  He was too tall, his shoulders were too high, his nose too prominent, his eyes too deep-set; and he wore a straw hat with the brim turned up.

To Honora his appearance was as familiar as the picture of the Pope which had always stood on Catherine’s bureau.  But to-night, by grace of some added power of vision, she saw him with new and critical eyes.  She was surprised to discover that he was possessed of a quality with which she had never associated him—­youth.  Not to put it too strongly—­comparative youth.

“Peter,” she demanded, “why do you dress like that?”

“Like what?” he said.

Honora seized the lapel of his coat.

“Like that,” she repeated.  “Do you know, if you wore different clothes, you might almost be distinguished looking.  Don’t laugh.  I think it’s horrid of you always to laugh when I tell you things for your own good.”