Peter grew very red.  Who could have supposed that this shabby old person, whom he had endeavoured to snub, was the great Lady Tintern?

“She didn’t find me,” said the old lady.  “I was in bed long before Sarah came back.  I presume this young gentleman escorted her home?”

“I always send a servant across for Sarah whenever she stays at all late at Barracombe, and always have,” said Mrs. Hewel, in hurried self-defence.  “You must remember we are old friends; there never was any formality about her visits to Barracombe.”

“My guardian and I walked down to the ferry, and saw her across the river, of course,” said Peter, rather sulkily.

“But her maid was with her,” cried Mrs. Hewel.

“Of course,” Peter said again, in tones that were none too civil.

After all, who was Lady Tintern that she should call him to task?  And as if there could be any reason why her oldest playmate should not see Sarah home if he chose.

At the very bottom of Peter’s heart lurked an inborn conviction that his father’s son was a very much more important personage than any Hewel, or relative of Hewel, could possibly be.

“That was very kind of you and your guardian,” said the old lady, suddenly becoming gracious.  “Emily, I will leave you to talk to your old friend.  I dare say I shall see him again at luncheon?”

“I cannot stay to luncheon.  My mother is expecting me,” said Peter.

He would not express any thanks.  What business had the presuming old woman to invite him to luncheon?  It was not her house, after all.

“Oh, your mother is expecting you,” said Lady Tintern, whose slightly derisive manner of repeating Peter’s words embarrassed and annoyed the young gentleman exceedingly.  “I am glad you are such a dutiful son, Sir Peter.”

She gathered together her letters and her black draperies, and tottered off to the door, which Peter, who was sadly negligent of les petits soins forgot to open for her; nor did he observe the indignant look she favoured him with in consequence.

Sarah came into the drawing-room at last; fresh as the morning dew, in her summer muslin and fluttering, embroidered ribbons; with a bunch of forget-me-nots, blue as her eyes, nestling beneath her round, white chin.  Her bright hair was curled round her pretty ears and about her fair throat, but Peter did not compare this coiffure to a fashion plate, though, indeed, it exactly resembled one.  Neither did he cast the severely critical glance upon Sarah’s toilette that he had bestowed upon the soft, grey gown, and the cluster of white moss-rosebuds which poor Lady Mary had ventured to wear that morning.

“How have you managed to offend Aunt Elizabeth, Peter?” cried Sarah, with her usual frankness.  “She is in the worst of humours.”

“Sarah!” said her mother, reprovingly.

“Well, but she is,” said Sarah.  “She called him a cub and a bear, and all sorts of things.”