“It was you who stopped her,” said Peter quietly.

Lord Evelyn tapped his fingers on his chair arm.

“I’m not a moralist; anything but a moralist, y’know.  But as a man of the world, with some experience, I knew that couldn’t be.  So I told her the truth.”

“The truth?” Peter wondered.

“Yes, boy, the truth.  The only truth that mattered to Lucy.  That you couldn’t be happy that way.  That you loved Denis too much to be happy that way.  When I said it, she knew it.  ’Deed, I believe she’d known it before, in her heart.  So she wrote to you, and ended that foolish idea.  You know now that she was right, I think?”

“I knew it then.  I was just going to telegraph to her not to come when I got her letter.  No, I didn’t know she was right; but I knew we couldn’t do it.  I didn’t know it for myself, either; I had to be told.  When I was told, I knew it.”

“Ah.”  Lord Evelyn looked at the pale face, that had suddenly taken a look of age, as of one who looks back into a past bitterness.

“Ah.”  He looked in silence for a moment, then said, “You’ve been through a bad time, Peter.”

Peter’s face twitched suddenly, and he answered nothing.

“All those months,” said Lord Evelyn, and his high, unsteady voice shook with a curious tremor, “all that summer, you were in hell.”

Peter gave no denial.

“I knew it,” said Lord Evelyn.  “And you never answered the letter I wrote you.”

“No,” said Peter slowly.  “I answered no letters at all, I think.  I don’t remember exactly what I did, through that summer.  I suppose I lived—­because here I am.  And I suppose I kept Thomas alive—­because he’s here too.  But for the rest—­I don’t know.  I hated everyone and everything.  I believe Rodney used to come and see me sometimes; but I didn’t care....  Oh, what’s the good of talking about it?  It’s over now.”

Lord Evelyn was shading his face with a shaking hand.

“Poor boy,” he muttered to himself.  “Poor boy.  Poor boy.”

Peter, recovering his normal self, said, “You’ve been awfully good to me, Lord Evelyn.  I’ve behaved very badly to you, I believe.  Thanks most awfully for everything.  But don’t pity me now, because I’ve all I want.”

“Happy, are you?” Lord Evelyn looked up at him again, searchingly.

“Quite happy.”  Peter’s smile was reassuring.

“The dooce you are!” Lord Evelyn murmured.  “Well, I believe you....  Look here, young Peter, I’ve a proposal to make.  In the first place, is it over, that silly business of yours and Lucy’s?  Can you meet without upsetting each other?”

Peter considered for a moment.

“Yes; I think we can.  I suppose I shall always care—­I always have—­but now that we’ve made up our minds that it won’t do ... accepted it, you know....  Oh, yes, I think we could meet, as far as that goes.”

Lord Evelyn nodded approval.