“Of course—­she was quite willing,” said John, understanding the offence implied by Peter’s growl.  “But as we are looking at things exclusively from her point of view just now, we must not forget that she had seen nothing of the world, nothing of other men.  She had also”—­he caught his breath—­“a bright, gay, pleasure-loving disposition; but she moulded herself to seriousness to please her husband, to whom she owed everything.  When other girls of her age were playing at love—­thinking of dances, and games and outings—­she was absorbed in motherhood and household cares.  A perfect wife, a perfect mother, as poor human nature counts perfection.”

Lady Mary would have cried out in vehement contradiction and self-reproach, had she heard these words; but Peter again growled reluctant acquiescence, when John paused.

“In one day,” said John, slowly, “she was robbed of husband and child.  Her husband by death; her boy, her only son, by his own will.  He deserted her without even bidding, or intending to bid her, farewell.  Hush—­remember, this is from her point of view.”

Peter had started to his feet with an angry exclamation; but he sat down again, and bent his sullen gaze on the garden path as John continued.  His brown face was flushed; but John’s low, deep tones, now tender, now scornful, presently enchained and even fascinated his attention.  He listened intently, though angrily.

“Her grief was passionate, but—­her life was not over,” said John.  “She, who had been guided from childhood by the wishes of others, now found that, without neglecting any duty, she could consult her own inclinations, indulge her own tastes, choose her own friends, enjoy with all the fervour of an unspoilt nature the world which opened freshly before her:  a world of art, of music, of literature, of a thousand interests which mean so much to some of us, so little to others.  To her returns this formerly undutiful son, and finds—­a passionately devoted mother, indeed, but also a woman in the full pride of her beauty and maturity.  And this boy would condemn her—­the most delightful, the most attractive, the most unselfish companion ever desired by a man—­to sit in the chimney-corner like an old crone with a distaff, throughout all the years that fate may yet hold in store for her—­with no greater interest in life than to watch the fading of her own sweet face in the glass, and to await the intervals during which he would be graciously pleased to afford her the consolation of his presence.”

“Have you done?” said Peter, furiously.

“I could say a good deal more,” said John, growing suddenly cool.  “But”—­he showed his watch—­“my time is up.”

“What—­what do you mean by all this?” said the boy, stammering with passion.  “What is my mother to you?”

The time had come.

John’s bright hazel eyes had grown stern; his middle-aged face, flushed with the emotion his own words had aroused, yet controlled and calm in every line of handsome feature and steady brow, confronted Peter’s angry, bewildered gaze.