Rodney was groping for words, helplessly, blindly.

“Peter, I didn’t know you had it in you to be a cad.”

Peter was putting books into a portmanteau, and did not answer.

“You mean to do that ... to Denis....”

Peter put in socks and handkerchiefs.

“And to Lucy....  I don’t understand you, Peter....  I simply don’t understand.  Are you mad—­or drunk—­or didn’t I really ever know you in the least?”

Peter stuffed in Thomas’ nightgowns, crumpling them hideously.

“Very well,” said Rodney, very quietly.  “It doesn’t particularly matter which it is.  In any case you are not going to do it.  I shall prevent it.”

“You can’t,” Peter flung at him, crushing a woolly rabbit in among Thomas’ clothes.

Rodney sat still and looked at him, resting his chin on his hand; looked into him, through him, beyond him.

“I believe I can,” he said simply.

Peter stopped filling the bag, and, still sitting on the floor by it, delivered himself at last.

“We care for each other.  Isn’t that to count, then?  We always have cared for each other.  Are we to do without each other for always?  We want each other, we need each other.  Denis doesn’t need Lucy.  He never did; not as I do.  Are Lucy and I to do without each other, living only half a life, because of him?  I tell you, I’m sick to death of doing without things.  The time has come when it won’t do any more, and I’m going to take what I can.  I think I would rob anyone quite cheerfully if he had what I wanted.  A few days ago I did rob; I bought things I knew I couldn’t pay for.  I’m sending them back now simply because I don’t want them any more, not because I’m sorry I took them.  It was fair I should take them; it was my turn to have things, mine and Thomas’s.  And now I’m going to take this, and keep it, till it’s taken away from me.  I daresay it will be taken away soon; my things always are.  Everything has broken and gone, one thing after another, all my life—­all the things I’ve cared for.  I’m tired of it.  I was sick of it by the time I was ten years old, sick of always getting ill or smashed up; and that’s gone on ever since, and people have always thought, I know, ’Oh, it’s only him, he never minds anything, he doesn’t count, he’s just a crock, and his only use is to play the fool for us.’  But I did mind; I did.  And I only played the fool because it would have been drearier still not to, and because there was always something amusing left to laugh at, not because I didn’t mind.  And then I cared for Denis as ...  Oh, but you know how I cared for Denis.  He was the most bright and splendid thing I knew in all the splendid world ... and he chucked me, because everything went wrong that could go wrong between us without my fault ... and our friendship was spoilt....  And I cared for Hilary and Peggy; and they would go and do things to spoil all our lives, and the more I tried, like