“Oh, old Sir Robert was Maryon’s guardian till he came of age, and then, when Maryon decided to go in for painting, he presented him with the small patrimony to which he was entitled and declined to have anything further to do with him—­either financially or otherwise.  Simply chucked him.  Maryon went through some very bad times, I believe, in his early days,” continued Kitty, striving to be just.  “That’s the one thing I respect him for.  He stuck to it and won through to where he stands now.”

“It shows he’s got some grit, anyway,” agreed Peter.  “And do you think”—­smiling—­“that that’s the type of man who’s going to give in over winning the woman he wants? . . .  Should I, if things were different—­if I were free?”

Kitty laughed reluctantly.

“You?  No.  But you’re not Maryon Rooke.  He could never be the kind of lover you would be, my Peter.  With him, his art counts first of anything in the wide world.  And that’s why I don’t think he’ll come to St. Wennys.  He’s in love with Nan—­as far as his type can be in love—­but he’s not going to tie himself up with her.  So he’ll keep away.”

She paused, then went on urgently: 

“Peter dear, we shall all of us hate it so if you don’t come down to Cornwall with us this year.  Look, if Rooke doesn’t show up down there, so that we know he’s only philandering with Nan and has no real intention of marrying her, will you come then?”

He still hesitated.  And all at once Kitty saw the other side of the picture—­Peter’s side.  She wanted him at Mallow—­they all wanted him.  But she had not thought of the matter from his point of view.  Now that she knew he cared for Nan she recognised that it would be a bitterly hard thing for him to be under the same roof with the woman he loved, yet from whom he was barred by every law of God and man, and who, as far as Kitty knew, regarded him solely in the light of a friend.  Even if Nan were growing to care for Peter—­the bare possibility flashed through Kitty’s mind only to be instantly dismissed—­even so, it would serve only to complicate matters still further.

When she spoke again it was in a very subdued tone of voice and with an accent of keen self-reproach.

“Peter, I’m a selfish pig!  All this time I’ve never been thinking of you—­only of ourselves.  I believe it’s your own fault”—­with a rather quavering laugh.  “You’ve taught us all to expect so much from you—­and to give so little.”

Mallory made a quick gesture of dissent.

“Oh, yes, you have,” she insisted.  “You’re always giving and we just—­take!  I never thought how hard a thing I was asking when I begged you to come down to Mallow while Nan was with us.  It was sheer brutality to suggest it.”  Her voice trembled.  “Please forgive me, Peter!”

“My dear, there’s nothing to forgive.  You know I love Nan, that she’ll always be the one woman for me.  But you know, too, that there’s Celia, and that Nan and I can never be more to each other than we are now—­just friends.  I’m not going to forfeit that friendship—­unless it happens it would be best for Nan that we should forget we were even friends.  And I won’t say it doesn’t hurt to be with her.  But there are some hurts that one would rather bear than lose what goes with them.”