“I read his name in lists of dances given by people I did not know he had ever heard of.  But I did not like to ask him how he managed to get invited.  He rather dislikes being questioned,” said Lady Mary, describing Peter’s prejudices as mildly as possible.

“I fancy Miss Sarah could tell you,” said John, with twinkling eyes.

“I did not know—­just a girl—­could get a stranger, a boy like Peter, invited everywhere,” said Lady Mary, innocently.

John laughed.  “Peter is a very eligible boy,” he said, “and Sarah is not ‘just a girl,’ but a very clever young woman indeed; and Lady Tintern is a ball-giver.  But if he had been the most ordinary of youths, a bachelor’s foothold on the dance-lists is the easiest thing in the world to obtain.  It means nothing in itself.”

“I think it meant a good deal to Peter,” said his mother, with a sigh.  “If only I could think Sarah were in earnest.”

“I don’t see why not,” said John.

Then he came and took Lady Mary’s hand, and led her to a seat next the fire.

“Come and sit down comfortably,” he said, “and let us talk everything over.  It looks very miserable out-of-doors, and nothing could be more delightful than this room, and nobody to disturb us.  I want the real history of the last few months.  Do you know your letters told me almost nothing?”

The room was certainly delightful, and not the less so for the Chill rain without, which beat against the windows, and enhanced the bright aspect of the scene within.

A little fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, and cast its glow upon the burnished fender, and the silver ornaments and trifles on a rosewood table beyond.  The furniture was bright with old-fashioned glossy chintz; the rose-tinted walls were hung with fine water-colour drawings; the windows with rose-silk curtains.

The hardy outdoor flowers were banished to the oaken hall.  Lady Mary’s sense of the fitness of things permitted the silver cups and Venetian glasses of this dainty apartment to be filled only with waxen hothouse blooms and maidenhair fern.

She could not but be conscious of the restfulness of her surroundings, and of John’s calm, protecting presence, as he placed her tenderly in the corner of the fireside couch, and took his place beside her.

“I don’t think the last months have had any history at all,” she said dreamily.  “I have missed you, John.  But that—­you know already.  I—­I have been very lonely—­since—­since Peter came home.  I think it was Sarah who persuaded him to go away again so soon.  I believe she laughed at his clothes.”

“I suppose they were a little out of date, and he must surely have outgrown them, besides,” said John, smiling.

“I suppose so; anyway, I think it must have been that which put it into his head to go to London and buy more.  It was a little awkward for the poor boy, because he had just been scolding me for wishing to go to London.  But he said he would only be a few days.”