He replaced the eyeglass, and walked up and down the room for a few moments, as though he were pacing a quarter-deck.  He looked very tall, and very, very slight and thin; older than his years, tanned and dried by the African sun, which had enhanced his natural darkness.  Though he spoke as a boy, he looked like a man.  His mother’s heart yearned over him.

Peter had taken his lack of perception with him into the heart of South Africa, and brought it back intact.  Because his body had travelled many hundreds of miles over land and sea, he believed that his mind had opened in proportion to the distance covered.  He knew that men and women of action pick up knowledge of the world without pausing on their busy way; but he did not know that it is to the silent, the sorrowful, and the solitary—­to those who have time to listen—­that God reveals the secrets of life.

She said to herself that everything about him was dear to her; his grey eyes, that never saw below the surface of things; his thin, brown face; his youthful affectation; the strange, new growth which shaded his long upper lip, and softened the plainness of the Crewys physiognomy, which Peter would not have bartered for the handsomest set of Greek features ever imagined by a sculptor.  Even for his faults Lady Mary had a tender toleration; for Peter would not have been Peter without them.

“It would not be fair on Sarah, knowing all London—­worth knowing—­as she does,” said Peter with pardonable exaggeration, “to rob her of the season altogether.  We shall go up regularly, every year, if—­if she marries me.  Of that I am determined, and so”—­incidentally—­“is she.”

“Nothing could be nicer,” said Lady Mary, heartily enough to satisfy even Peter.

He spoke with more warmth and naturalness.  “She likes to go abroad, mother, too, now and then,” he said.

“That would be delightful,” said Lady Mary, eagerly.  Her blue eyes sparkled.  Her interest and enthusiasm were easily roused, after all; and surely these new ideas would make it much easier to tell Peter.  “Oh, Peter!” she said, clasping her hands, “Paris—­Rome—­Switzerland!”

“Wherever Sarah fancies,” said Peter, magnanimously.  “I can’t say I care much.  All I am thinking of is—­being with her.  It doesn’t matter where, so long as she is pleased.  What does anything matter,” he said, and his dark face softened as she had never seen it soften yet, “so long as one is with the companion one loves best in the world?”

“It would be—­Paradise,” said Lady Mary, in a low voice; and she thought to herself resolutely, “I will tell him now.”

Peter ceased his walk, and came close to her and took her hand.  The emotion had not altogether died out of his voice and face.

“But you are not to think, mother, that I shall ever again be the selfish boy I used to be—­the boy who didn’t value your love and devotion.”

“No, dear, no,” she answered, with wet eyes; “I will never think so.  We can love each other just the same, perhaps even batter, even though—­Oh, Peter—­”