Peter examined the new aspect of his domain with lowering brow.

“I don’t like it at all,” he announced, finally.  “I hate changes.”

The sisters breathed again.  “So like his father!”

Their allegiance to Sir Timothy had been transferred to his heir.

“Your guardian approved,” said Lady Mary.

She turned proudly away, but she could not keep the pain altogether out of her voice.  Neither would she stoop to solicit Peter’s approval before her rejoicing opponents.

“Mr. John Crewys is a very great connoisseur,” said the canon.  He taxed his memory for corroborative evidence, and brought out the result with honest pride.  “I believe, curiously enough, that he spends most of his spare time at the British Museum.”

Lady Mary’s lip quivered with laughter in the midst of her very real distress and mortification.

But the argument appeared to the canon a most suitable one, and he was further encouraged by Peter’s reception of it.

“If my guardian approves, I suppose it’s all right,” said the young man, with an effort.  “My father left all that sort of thing in his hands, I understand, and he knew what he was doing.  I say, where’s that great vase of wax flowers that used to stand on the centre table under a glass shade?”

“Darling,” said Lady Mary, “it jarred so with the whole scheme of decoration.”

“I am taking care of that in my room, Peter,” said Miss Crewys.

“And the stuffed birds, and the weasels, and the ferrets that I was so fond of when I was a little chap.  You don’t mean to say you’ve done away with those too?” cried Peter, wrathfully.

“They—­they are in the gun-room,” said Lady Mary.  “It seemed such a—­such—­an appropriate place for them.”

“I believe,” said the canon, nervously, “that stuffing is no longer considered decorative.  After all, why should we place dead animals in our sitting-rooms?”

He looked round with the anxious smile of the would-be peacemaker.

“They were very much worm-eaten, Peter,” said Lady Mary.  “But if you would like them brought back—­”

Perhaps the pain in her voice penetrated even Peter’s perception, for he glanced hastily towards her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said magnanimously.  “If you and my guardian decided they were rotten, there’s an end of it.  Of course I’d rather have things as they used to be; but after all this time, I expect there’s bound to be a few changes.”  He turned from the contemplation of the hall to face his relatives squarely, with the air of an autocrat who had decreed that the subject was at an end.

“By-the-by,” said Peter, “where is John Crewys?  They told me he was stopping here.”

“He will be in directly,” said Lady Mary, “and Sarah Hewel ought to be here presently too.  She is coming to luncheon.”

“Sarah!” said Peter.  “I should like to see her again.  Is she still such a rum little toad?  Always getting into scrapes, and coming to you for comfort?”