“You did?  Demme! that’s her again.  She always guessed everything, and so did you.  She guessed I cared....  You’re her own child—­only she was lovely, you know, and you’re not, don’t think it....  Well, she had her follies, like you—­a romantic child, she always was....  You must go your own way, young Peter.  I’ll not hinder or help you till you want me....  And now I’m tired; I’ve talked too much.  I’m not going to ask you to lunch with me, for I don’t want you.  Leave me now.”

Peter paused for a moment still.  He wanted to ask questions, and could not.

“Well, what now?  Oh, I see; you want the latest news of your Denis and Lucy.  Well, they’re doing as well as can be expected.  Denis—­I need hardly say, need I?—­flourishes like the green bay tree in all his works.  He’s happy, like you.  No, not like you a bit; he’s got things to be happy about; his happiness isn’t a reasonless lunacy; it’s got a sound bottom to it.  The boy is a fine boy, probably going to be nearly as beautiful as Denis, but with Lucy’s eyes.  And Lucy’s happy enough, I hope.  Knows Denis inside and out, you know, and has accepted him, for better or worse.  I don’t believe she’s pining for you, if that’s what you want to know.  You may be somewhere deep down at the bottom of her always—­shouldn’t wonder if you are—­but she gives the top of her to Denis all right—­and more than that to the boy—­and all of her to life and living, as she always did and always must.  You two children seem to be tied to life with stronger ropes than most people, an’t you.  Sylvia was, before you.  Not to any one thing in life, or to many things, but just to life itself.  So go and live it in your own way, and don’t bother me any more.  You’ve tired me out.”

Peter said good-bye, and went.  He loved Lord Evelyn, and his eyes were sad because he had thrown back his offer on his hands.  He didn’t think Lord Evelyn had many more years before him, though he was only fifty-five; and for a moment he wondered whether he couldn’t, after all, accept that offer till the end came.  He even, at the garden wall, hung for a moment in doubt, with the echo of that high, wistful voice in his ears.

But before him the white road ran down from the olive-grey hills to the little gay town by the blue sea’s edge, and the sweetness of the scented hills in the May sunshine caught him by the throat, and, questioning no more, he took the road.

He loved Lord Evelyn; but the life he offered was not for Peter, not for Thomas as yet; though Thomas, in the years to come, should choose his own path.  At present there was for both of them the merry, shifting life of the roads, the passing friendships, lightly made, lightly loosed, the olive hills, silver like ghostly armies in the pale moonlight, the sweetness of the starry flowers at their twisted stems, the sudden blue bays that laughed below bends of the road, the cities, like many-coloured nosegays on a pale chain, the intimate sweetness of lemon gardens by day and night, the happy morning on the hills and sea.