Rodney put a large finger on Thomas’ head.

“Thomas isn’t such a fool....  Hullo, there’s another of you.”  Francesco woke and came out of his corner and laid his nose on Rodney’s knee with his confiding grin.

“Yes, that’s San Francesco.  Rather nice, isn’t he.  He’s coming with us too.  I called him Francesco instead of Francis that he might feel at home in Italy.”

“Oh, in Italy.”

Peter hadn’t meant to tell Rodney that, because he didn’t think that Rodney would approve, and he wanted to avoid an argument.  But he had let it out, of course; he could never keep anything in.

“That’s where we’re going to-morrow, to seek our fortunes.  Won’t it be rather good in Italy now?  We don’t know what we shall do when we get there, or where we shall go; but something nice, for sure.”

“I’m glad,” said Rodney.  “It’s a good country in the spring.  Shall you walk the roads with Thomas slung over your back, or what?”

“I don’t know.  Partly, I daresay.  But we want to find some little place between the hills and the sea, and stay there.  Perhaps for always; I don’t know.  It’s going to be extraordinarily nice, anyhow.”

Rodney glanced at him, caught by the ring in his voice, a ring he hadn’t heard for long.  He didn’t quite understand Peter.  When last he saw him, he had been very far through, alarmingly near the bottom.  Was this recovery natural grace, or had something happened?  It seemed to Rodney rather admirable, and he looked appreciatively at Peter’s cheerful face and happy eyes.

“Good,” he said.  “Good—­splendid!”

And then Peter, meeting his pleased look and understanding it, winced back from it, and coloured, and bent over his brown paper and string.  He valued Rodney’s appreciation, a thing not easily won.  He felt that in this moment he had won it, as he had never won it before.  For he knew that Rodney liked pluck, and was thinking him plucky.

Against his will he muttered, half beneath his breath, “Oh, it isn’t really what you call good.  It is good, you know:  I think it’s good; but you won’t.  You’ll call it abominable.”

“Oh,” said Rodney.

Peter went on, with a new violence, “I know all you’ll say about it, so I’m not going to give you the opportunity of saying it till I’m gone.  You needn’t think I’m going to tell you now and let you tell me I’m wrong.  I’m not wrong; and if I am I don’t care.  Please don’t stay any more; I’d rather you weren’t here to-night.  I don’t want to tell you anything; only I had just got to say that, because you were thinking....  Oh, do go now.”

Rodney sat quite still and looked at him, into him, through him, beyond him.  Then he said, “You needn’t tell me anything.  I know.  Lucy and you are going together.”

Peter stood up, rather unsteadily.

“Well?  That’s not clever.  Any fool could have guessed that.”

“Yes.  And any fool could guess what I’m going to say about it, too.  You know it all already, of course....”