“I have seen something of women of the world,” said Peter, who had scarcely yet skimmed the bubbles from the surface of that society, whose depths he believed himself to have explored.  “I suppose that is what my mother wants to turn into, when she talks of London and Paris. My mother! who has lived in the country all her life.”

“I suppose some women are worldly,” said John, as gravely as possible, “and no doubt the shallow-hearted, the stupid, the selfish are to be found everywhere, and belonging to either sex; but, nevertheless, solid virtue and true kindness are to be met with among the dames of Mayfair as among the matrons of the country-side.  Their shibboleth is different, that’s all.  Perhaps—­it is possible—­that the speech of the town ladies is the more charitable, that they seek more persistently to do good to their fellow-creatures.  I don’t know.  Comparisons are odious, but so,” he added, with a slight laugh, “are general conclusions, founded on popular prejudice rather than individual experience—­odious.”

Here John perceived that his words of wisdom were conveying hardly any meaning to Peter, who was only waiting impatiently till he had come to an end of them; so he pursued this topic no further, and contented himself by inquiring: 

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to explain to her,” said Peter, eagerly, “how unsuitable it would be; and to advise her to settle down quietly at the Dower House, as I’m sure my father would have wished her to do.  That’s all.”

“I see,” said John, “you want me to put the case to her from your point of view.”

“I wish you would,” said Peter, earnestly; “every one says you’re so eloquent.  Surely you could talk her over?”

“I hope I am not eloquent in private life,” said John, laughing.  “But if you want to know how it appears to me—?”

Peter nodded gravely, pipe in mouth.

“Let us see.  To start with,” said John, thoughtfully, “you went off, a boy from Eton, to serve your country when you thought, and rightly, that your country had need of you.  You distinguished yourself in South Africa—­”

“Surely you needn’t go into all that?” said Peter, staring.

“Excuse me,” said John, smiling.  “In putting your case, I can’t bear to leave out vital details.  Merely professional prejudice.  Shortly, then, you fully sustained your share in a long and arduous campaign; you won your commission; you were wounded, decorated, and invalided home.”

He stopped short in the brilliant sunshine which now flooded their path, and looked gravely at Peter.

“Some of us,” said John, “have imagination enough to realize, even without the help of war-correspondents, the scenes of horror through which you, and scores of other boys, fresh from school, like you, had to live through.  We can picture the long hours on the veldt—­on the march—­in captivity—­in the hospitals—­in the blockhouses—­when soldiers have been sick at heart, wearied to death with physical suffering, and haunted by ghastly memories of dead comrades.”