But Peter was in no mind to brook interruption.  He was burning to pour out his plans for her future, and his own.

“Wherever we may go, and whatever we may be doing,” he said emotionally, “it will be a joy and a comfort to me to know that my dear old mother is always here.  Taking care of the place and looking after the people, and waiting always to welcome me, with her old sweet smile on her dear old face.”

Peter was not often moved to such enthusiasm, and he was almost overcome by his own eloquence in describing this beautiful picture.

Lady Mary was likewise overcome.  She sank back once more in her cushioned corner, looking at him with a blank dismay that could not escape even his dull observation.  How impossible it was to tell Peter, after all!  How impossible he always made it!

“I know you must feel it just at first,” he said anxiously; “but you—­you can’t expect to keep me all to yourself for ever.”

She shook her head, and tried to smile.

He grew a little impatient.  “After all,” he said, “you must be reasonable, mother.  Every one has to live his own life.”

Then Lady Mary found words.  A sudden rush of indignation—­the pent-up feelings of years—­brought the scarlet blood to her cheeks and the fire to her gentle, blue eyes.

“Every one—­but me” she said, trembling violently.

“You!” said Peter, astonished.

She clasped her hands against her bosom to still the panting and throbbing that, it seemed to her, must be evident outwardly, so strong was the emotion that shook her fragile form.

“Every one—­but me,” she said.  “Does it never—­strike you—­Peter—­that I, too, would like to live before I die?  Whilst you are living your own life, why shouldn’t I be living mine?  Why shouldn’t I go to London, and to Paris, and to Rome, and to Switzerland, or wherever I choose, now that you—­you—­have set me free?”

“Mother,” said Peter, aghast, “are you gone mad?”

“Perhaps I am a little mad,” said poor Lady Mary.  “People go mad sometimes, who have been too long—­in prison—­they say.”  Then she saw his real alarm, and laughed till she cried.  “I am not really mad,” she said.  “Do not be frightened, Peter.  I—­I was only joking.”

“It is enough to frighten anybody when you go on like that,” said Peter, relieved, but angry.  “Talking of prison, and rushing about all over the world—­I see no joke in that.”

“Why should I be the only one who must not rush all over the world?” said Lady Mary.

“You must know perfectly well it would be preposterous,” said Peter, sullenly, “to break up all your habits, and leave Barracombe and—­and all of us—­and start a fresh life—­at your age.  And if this is how you mock at me and all my plans, I’m sorry I ever took you into my confidence at all.  I might have known I should repent it,” he said; and a sob of angry resentment broke his voice.