“Don’t think I’m blind to his faults,” urged Lady Mary, “only I can laugh at them better than you can, because I know all the while that at the very bottom of his heart he’s only my baby Peter after all.  He’s not—­God bless him—­he’s not the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish boy he sometimes pretends to be.  Don’t remember him like that now, Timothy.  Think of that morning in June—­that glorious, sunny morning in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God because you had a son.  Think of that other summer day when we couldn’t bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we were afraid he was going back to heaven.”

Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity for her, and for Peter, and for himself.  But the voice of the charmer, charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark cloud that was hanging over him.

The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety.  The calmness of mind which the great surgeon had prescribed—­the placid courage, largely aided by dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the morrow—­where were they?

He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master him, and forced himself to be calm.  When he spoke again his voice sounded not much less measured and pompous than usual.

“My dear, you are agitating yourself and me.  Let us confine ourselves to the subject in hand.”

Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held so warmly pressed between her own, and stepped back.

“Ah, forgive me!” she said in clear tones.  “It’s so difficult to—­”

“To—?”

“To be exactly what you wish.  To be always on guard.  My feelings broke bounds for once.”

“Calm yourself,” said Sir Timothy.  “And besides, so far as I am concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary.”

“You have forgiven him?” she cried joyfully, yet almost incredulously.

He paused, and then said with solemnity:  “I have forgiven him, Mary.  It is not the moment for me to cherish resentment, least of all against my only son.”

“Ah, thank God!  Then you will come to Southampton?”

“That is impossible.  But I will telegraph my forgiveness and the blessing which he has not sought that he may receive it before the ship sails.”

“I am grateful to you for doing even so much as that, Timothy, and for not being angry.  Then I must go alone?”

“No, no.”

“Understand me,” said Lady Mary, in a low voice, “for I am in earnest.  I have never deceived you.  I will not defy you in secret, like Peter; but I will go and bid my only son God-speed, though the whole world conspired to prevent me. I will go!”

There was a pause.

“You speak,” said Sir Timothy, resentfully, “as though I had habitually thwarted your wishes.”