He made an exception in his own mind, but decided that it was not necessary to explain this to John, for the moment.

“Thank you, Peter,” said John.

“My mother—­seems to me,” said Peter, slowly, “to have changed very much since I went to South Africa.  Have you noticed it?”

“I have,” said John, dryly.

“I don’t suppose,” said Peter, quickening his steps, “that any one could realize exactly what I feel about it.”

“I think—­perhaps—­I could,” said John, without visible satire, “dimly and, no doubt, inadequately.”

“The fact is,” said Peter, and the warm colour rushed into his brown face, even to his thin temples, “I—­I’m hoping to get married very soon; though nothing’s exactly settled yet.”

“A man in your position generally marries early,” said John.  “I think you’re quite right.”

“As my mother likes—­the girl I want to marry,” said Peter, “I hoped it would make everything straight.  But she seems quite miserable at the thought of settling down quietly in the Dower House.”

“Ah! in the Dower House,” said John.  “Then you will not be wanting her to live here with you, after all?”

“It’s the same thing, though,” said Peter, “as I’ve tried to explain to her.  She’d be only a few yards off; and she could still be looking after the place and my interests, and all that, as she does now.  And whenever I was down here, I should see her constantly; you know how devoted I am to my mother.  Of course I can’t deny I did lead her to hope I should be always with her.  But a man can’t help it if he happens to fall in love.  Of course, if—­if all happens as I hope, as I have reason to hope, I shall have to be away from her a good deal.  But that’s all in the course of nature as a fellow grows up.  I sha’n’t be any the less glad to see her when I do come home.  And yet here she is talking quite wildly of leaving Barracombe altogether, and going to London, and travelling all over the world, and doing all sorts of things she’s never done in her life.  It’s not like my mother, and I can’t bear to think of her like that.  I tell you she’s changed altogether,” said Peter, and there were tears in his grey eyes.

John felt an odd sympathy for the boy; he recognized that though Peter’s limitations were obvious, his anxiety was sincere.

Peter, too, had his ideals; if they were ideals conventional and out of date, that was hardly his fault.  John figured to himself very distinctly that imaginary mother whom Peter held sacred; the mother who stayed always at home, and parted her hair plainly, and said many prayers, and did much needlework; but who, nevertheless, was not, and never could be, the real Lady Mary, whom Peter did not know.  But it was a tender ideal in its way, though it belonged to that past into which so many tender and beautiful visions have faded.

The maiden of to-day still dreams of the knightly armour-clad heroes of the twelfth century; it is not her fault that she is presently glad to fall in love with a gentleman on the Stock Exchange, in a top hat and a frock coat.