“You want to make a fool of me again,” he broke out, “so you join in a lying letter and bring me here on false pretences.  At least, I suppose it was really Lucy you thought to bring.  You play on Lucy’s soft heart, knowing you can squeeze money out of her—­and so you can afford to say you’ve no use for mine.  Is that it?”

Peter said, dully looking at his anger as at an ancient play re-staged, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I know nothing of any letter.  And you don’t suppose I should take your money, or Lucy’s either.  Why should I?  I don’t want money.”

Lord Evelyn was pacing petulantly up and down the shabby carpet, waving his cane as he walked.

“Oh, you know nothing of any letter, don’t you.  Well, ask your sister-in-law, then; ask that precious brother of yours.  Haven’t you always chosen to hang on to them and join in their dirty tricks?  And now you turn round and say you know nothing of their doings; a pretty story....  Now look here, Mr. Peter Margerison, you’ve asked for money and you shall take it, d’ye see?”

Peter flung at him, in a queer and quite new hot bitterness and anger (it was perhaps the result of influenza, which has strange after effects).  “You’ve no right to come here and say these things to me.  I didn’t want you to come; I never asked you to; and now I never want to see you again.  Please go, Lord Evelyn.”

Lord Evelyn paused in his walk, and stood looking at him for a moment, his lips parted to speak, his hands clasped behind him over the gold head of his cane.

Then, into the ensuing silence, came Lucy, small and pale and wet in her grey furs, and stood like a startled kitten, her wide eyes turning from one angry face to the other.

Peter said to her, in a voice she had never heard from him before, “So you’ve come too.”

Lord Evelyn tittered disagreeably.  “Didn’t expect her, of course, did you.  So unlikely she’d come, after getting a letter like that....  I suppose you’re wondering, Lucy, what I’m doing dans cette galere.”

“No,” said Lucy, “I wasn’t.  I know.  You’ve come to see Peter, like me.”

He laughed again.  “Yes, that’s it.  Like you.  And now he pretends he won’t take the money he asked for, Lucy.  Won’t be beholden to me at any price.  Perhaps he was waiting for you.”

Lucy was looking at Peter, who looked so ill and so strange and new.  Never before had he looked at her like that, with hard eyes.  Peter was angry; the skies had fallen.

She said, and put out her hands to him, “What’s the matter, Peter?  Don’t ... don’t look like that....  Oh, you’re ill; do sit down; it’s so stupid to stand about.”

Peter said, his own hands hanging at his sides, “Do you mind going away, both of you.  I don’t think I want to talk to either of you to-day....  I suppose you’ve brought money to give me too, Lucy, have you?”

Lucy coloured faintly over her small pale face.