“Quite so,” said Hilary, his teeth chattering with fever. (His temperature, though he would never know, as Peter had broken the thermometer, must be anyhow a hundred and three, he was sure.) “Quite so.  But that doesn’t affect my gratitude to you.  Peter’s friends are mine.  I must thank you for remembering Peter.”

Lord Evelyn, presumably not seeing the necessity, was silent.

“We have not met,” Hilary went on, passing his hot hand over his fevered brow, where the headache ran all round like a hot metal band, “for a very long time, Lord Evelyn; if we put aside that momentary encounter at Astleys last year.”  Hilary did put that aside, rather hastily, and went on, “Apart from that, we have not met since we were both in Venice, nearly two years ago.  Lord Evelyn, I have often wished to tell you how very deeply I have regretted certain events that came between us there.  I think there is a great deal that I might explain to you....”

Lord Evelyn, with averted face, said, “Be good enough to be silent, sir.  I have no desire to hear any of your remarks.  I have come merely to see your half-brother.”

“Of course,” said Hilary, who was sensitive, “if you take that line, there is nothing to be said between you and me.”

Lord Evelyn acknowledged this admission with a slight inclination of the head.

“Nothing whatever, sir.”

So there was silence, till Peter came in, pale and sickly and influenzaish, but with a smile for Lord Evelyn.  It was extraordinarily nice of Lord Evelyn, he thought, to have come all the way to Brook Street in the rain to see him.

Lord Evelyn looked at him queerly, intently, out of his short-sighted eyes as they shook hands.

“I wish to talk to you,” he remarked, with meaning.

Hilary took the hint, looked proud, said, “I see that my room is preferred to my company,” and went away.

When he had gone, Peter said, “Do sit down,” but Lord Evelyn took no notice of that.  He had come to see Peter in his need, but he had not forgiven him, and he would remain standing in his house.  Peter had once hurt him so badly that the mere sight of him quickened his breath and flushed his cheek.  He tapped his cane impatiently against his grey spats.

“You’re ill,” he said, accusingly.

“Oh, I’ve only had flu,” said Peter; “I’m all right now.”

“You’re ill,” Lord Evelyn repeated.  “Don’t contradict me, sir.  You’re ill; you’re in want; and you’re bringing up a baby on insufficient diet.  What?”

“Not a bit,” said Peter.  “I am not in want, nor is Thomas.  Thomas’ diet is so sufficient that I’m often afraid he’ll burst with it.”

Lord Evelyn said, “You’re probably lying.  But if you’re not, why d’ye countenance your sister-in-law’s begging letters?  You’re a hypocrite, sir.  But that’s nothing I didn’t know before, you may say.  Well, you’re right there.”

Lord Evelyn’s anger was working up.  He hadn’t known it would be so difficult to talk to Peter and remain calm.