“It’s true, though I say it so badly; and I know it, because, as I tell you, Peter and I are just the same sort at heart.  I’ve been teasing him, pretending to be a worldling, but foreign travel and entertaining in London are just about as unsuited to me as to Peter.  I—­I’m glad”—­she uttered a quick, little sob—­“that I—­I played my part well while it all lasted; but you know it wasn’t so much me as my looks that did it.  And because I didn’t care, I was blunt and natural, and they thought it chic.  But it wasn’t chic; it was that I really didn’t care.  And I don’t think I’ve ever quite succeeded in taking Peter in either; for he couldn’t believe I could really think any sort of life worth living but the dear old life down here, which he and I love best in the world, in our heart of hearts.”

The twinkling, frosty blue points of starlight glittered in the cloudless vault of heaven, above the moonlit stillness of the valley.  The clear-cut shadows of the balcony and the stone urns fell across the cold paths and whitened grass of the terrace.

Ghostlike, Sarah’s white form emerged from the darkness of the room, and stood on the threshold of the window.

John threw away the end of his cigar, and smiled.  “I presume the interview we were not to interrupt is over?” he said, good-humouredly.  “Surely it is not very prudent of Miss Sarah to venture out-of-doors in that thin gown; or has she a cloak of some kind—­”

But Peter was not listening to him.

Sarah, wrapped in her white cloak and hood, had already flitted across the moonlit terrace, into the deep shadow of the ilex grove; and the boy was by her side before John could reach the window she had just quitted.

“Oh, is it you, Peter?” said Miss Sarah, looking over her shoulder.  “I was looking for you.  I have put on my things.  It is getting late, and I thought you would see me home.”

“Must you go already?” cried Peter.  “Have they sent to fetch you?”

“I dare say I could stay a few moments,” said Sarah; “but, of course, my maid came ages ago, as usual.  But if there was anything you particularly wanted to say—­you know how tiresome she is, keeping as close as she can, to listen to every word—­why, it would be better to say it now.  I am not in such a hurry as all that.”

“You know very well I want to say a thousand things,” said Peter, vehemently.  “I have been walking up and down till I thought I should go mad, making conversation with John Crewys.”  Peter was honestly unaware that it was John who had made the conversation.  “Has Lady Tintern come to take you away, Sarah?  And why did she call on my mother this afternoon, the very moment she arrived?”

“Your mother would be the proper person to tell you that.  How should I know?” said Sarah, reprovingly.  “Have you asked her?”

“How can I ask her?” said Peter.  His voice trembled.  “I’ve not spoken to her once—­except before other people—­since John Crewys told me—­what I told you this afternoon.  I’ve scarcely seen any one since I left you.  I wandered off for a beastly walk in the woods by myself, as miserable as any fellow would be, after all you said to me.  Do you think I—­I’ve got no feelings?”