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The girl pressed Peter's fingers with a woman's optimism for a man.

“You'll succeed, Peter, I know you will. Some day the name Siner will mean the same thing to coloured people as Tanner and Dunbar and Braithwaite do. Anyway, I've put my name down for ten dollars to help out.” She returned the pencil. “I'll have ​Tump Pack come around and pay you my subscription, Peter.”

“I'll watch out for Tump,” promised Peter in a lightening mood, “—and make him pay.”

“He'll do it.”

“I don't doubt it. You ought to have him under perfect control. I meant to tell you what a pretty frock you have on.”

The girl dimpled, and dropped him a little curtsy, half ironical and wholly graceful.

Peter was charmed.

“Now keep that way, Cissie, smiling and human, not so grammatical. I wish I had a brooch.”

“A brooch?”

“I'd give it to you. Your dress needs a brooch, an old gold brooch at the bosom, just a glint there to balance your eyes.”

Cissie flushed happily, and made the feminine movement of concealing the V-shaped opening at her throat.