“Oh, but you are, you know.  You’re what we mean by rich....  And it’s not only that.  There’s Denis and Lucy too.  We’ve parted ways, and I do think it’s best we shouldn’t meet much.  What’s the good of beginning again to want things one can’t have?  I might, you know; and it would hurt.  I don’t now.  I’ve given it all up.  I don’t want money; I don’t want Denis’s affection ... or Lucy ... or any of the things I have wanted, and that I’ve lost.  I’m happy without them; without anything but what one finds to play with here as one goes along.  One finds good things, you know—­friends, and sunshine, and beauty, and enough minestra to go on with, and sheltered places on the shore to boil one’s kettle in.  I’m happy.  Wouldn’t it be madness to leave it and go out and begin having and wanting things again?”

Lord Evelyn had been listening with a curious expression of comprehension struggling with impatience.

“And the boy?” he said.  “D’you suppose there’ll never come a time when you want for the boy more than you can give him here, in these dirty little towns you like so much?”

“Oh,” said Peter, “how can one look ahead?  Depend on it, if Thomas is one of the people who are born to have things, he will have them.  And if he’s not, he won’t, whatever I try to get for him.  He’s only one and a half now; so at least there’s time before we need think of that.  He’s happy at present with what he’s got.”

“And is it your purpose, then, to spend all your life—­anyhow, many years—­in these parts, selling needlework?”

“I’ve no purpose,” said Peter.  “I must see what turns up.  No, I daresay I shall try England again some time.  But, wherever I am, I think I know now what is the happy way to live, for people like me.  We’re no use, you see, people like me; we make a poor job at the game, and we keep failing and coming bad croppers and getting hurt and in general making a mess of things.  But at least we can be happy.  We can’t make our lives sublime, and departing leave behind us footprints on the sands of time—­oh, I don’t think I want to, in the least—­but we can make a fairly good time for ourselves and a few other people out of the things we have.  That’s what we’re doing, Thomas and I. And it’s good enough.”

Lord Evelyn looked at him long in silence, with his narrowed, searching eyes, that seemed always to be looking for something in his face and finding it there.

Then he sighed a little, and Peter, struck through by remorse, saw how old he looked in that moment.

“How it takes one back—­takes one back,” muttered Lord Evelyn.

Then he turned abruptly on Peter.

“Lest you get conceited, young Peter, with me begging for your company and being kindly refused, I’ll tell you something.  I loved your mother; my brother’s wife.  Did you ever guess that?—­guess why I liked you a good deal?”

“Yes,” said Peter, and Lord Evelyn started.