I saw him look at Peter in that hat and no collar, and wilt. It was too
much. Such a friend--such friends (for on Peter's advice I was looking
as ill as I might, an easy matter)! No, he couldn't come. He was waiting
for some friends. We must excuse him.

But Peter was not to be so easily shaken off. He launched into the most
brisk and serious conversation. He began his badger game by asking about
some work upon which Dick had been engaged before he left the office,
some order, how he was getting along with it, when it would be done;
and, when Dick evaded and then attempted to dismiss the subject, took
up another and began to expatiate on it, some work he himself was doing,
something that had developed in connection with it. He asked inane
questions, complimented Dick on his looks, began to tease him about some
girl. And poor Dick--his nervousness, his despair almost, the sense of
the waning of his opportunity! It was cruel. He was becoming more and
more restless, looking about more and more wearily and anxiously and
wishing to go or for us to go. He was horribly unhappy. Finally, after
ten or fifteen minutes had gone and various girls had crossed the plaza
in various directions, as well as carriages and saddle-horses--each one
carrying his heiress, no doubt!--he seemed to summon all his courage and
did his best to dispose of us. "You two'll have to excuse me," he
exclaimed almost wildly. "I can't wait." Those golden moments! She could
not approach! "My people aren't coming, I guess. I'll have to be going
on."

He smiled weakly and made off, Peter half following and urging him to
come back. Then, since he would not, we stood there on the exact spot of
the rendezvous gazing smirkily after him. Then we went into the park a
few paces and sat on a bench in full view, talking--or Peter was--most