“It was the idea of being almost distinguished looking that—­that gave me a shock,” he assured her repentantly.

“You should dress on a different principle,” she insisted.

Peter appeared dazed.

“I couldn’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because—­because I don’t dress on any principle now.”

“Yes, you do,” said Honora, firmly.  “You dress on the principle of the wild beasts and fishes.  It’s all in our natural history at Miss Farmer’s.  The crab is the colour of the seaweed, and the deer of the thicket.  It’s a device of nature for the protection of weak things.”

Peter drew himself up proudly.

“I have always understood, Miss Leffingwell, that the king of beasts was somewhere near the shade of the jungle.”

Honora laughed in spite of this apparent refutation of her theory of his apparel, and shook her head.

“Do be serious, Peter.  You’d make much more of an impression on people if you wore clothes that had—­well, a little more distinction.”

“What’s the use of making an impression if you can’t follow it up?” he said.

“You can,” she declared.  “I never thought of it until to-night, but you must have a great deal in you to have risen all the way from an errand boy in the bank to a lawyer.”

“Look out!” he cautioned her; “I shall become insupportably conceited.”

“A little more conceit wouldn’t hurt you,” said Honora, critically.  “You’ll forgive me, Peter, if I tell you from time to time what I think.  It’s for your own good.”

“I try to realize that,” replied Peter, humbly.  “How do you wish me to dress—­like Mr. Rossiter?”

The picture evoked of Peter arrayed like Mr. Harland Rossiter, who had sent flowers to two generations and was preparing to send more to a third, was irresistible.  Every city, hamlet, and village has its Harland Rossiter.  He need not be explained.  But Honora soon became grave again.

“No, but you ought to dress as though you were somebody, and different from the ordinary man on the street.”

“But I’m not,” objected Peter.

“Oh,” cried Honora, “don’t you want to be?  I can’t understand any man not wanting to be.  If I were a man, I wouldn’t stay here a day longer than I had to.”

Peter was silent as they went in at the gate and opened the door, for on this festive occasion they were provided with a latchkey.  He turned up the light in the hall to behold a transformation quite as wonderful as any contained in the “Arabian Nights” or Keightley’s “Fairy Mythology.”  This was not the Honora with whom he had left the house scarce three hours before!  The cambric dress, to be sure, was still no longer than the tops of her ankles and the hair still hung in a heavy braid down her back.  These were positively all that remained of the original Honora, and the change had occurred in the incredibly brief space required for the production of the opera “Pinafore.”  This Honora was a woman in a strange and disturbing state of exaltation, whose eyes beheld a vision.  And Peter, although he had been the subject of her conversation, well knew that he was not included in the vision.  He smiled a little as he looked at her.  It is becoming apparent that he is one of those unfortunate unimaginative beings incapable of great illusions.