“He’s let me,” Peter told his cousin Lucy, “get rid of all his horrible Lowestoft forgeries; awful things they were, with the blue hardly dry on them.  Frightful cheek, selling him things like that; it’s so insulting.  Leslie’s awfully sweet-tempered about being gulled, though.  He’s very kind to me; he lets me buy anything I like for him.  And he recommends me to his friends, too.  It’s a splendid profession; I’m so glad I thought of it.  If I hadn’t I should have had to go into a dye shop, or be a weaver or something.  It wouldn’t have been good form; it wouldn’t even have been clean.  I should have had a day-before-yesterday’s handkerchief and Rodney would have liked me more, but Denis would probably have cut me.  As it is I’m quite good form and quite clean, and I move in the best circles.  I love the Ignorant Rich; they’re so amusing.  I know such a nice lady.  She buys potato rings.  She likes them to be Dublin hall-marked and clearly dated seventeen hundred and something—­so, naturally, they always were till I began to buy them for her.  I’ve persuaded her to give away the most blatant forgeries to her god-children at their baptisms.  Babies like them, sham or genuine.”

Peter was having tea with his cousin Lucy and Urquhart in the White City.  Peter and Lucy were very fond of the White City.  Peter’s cousin Lucy was something like a small, gay spring flower, with wide, solemn grey eyes that brimmed with sudden laughters, and a funny, infectious gurgle of a laugh.  She was a year younger than Peter, and they had all their lives gone shares in their possessions, from guinea-pigs to ideas.  They admired the same china and the same people, with unquestioning unanimity.  Lucy lived in Chelsea, with an elder sister and a father who ran at his own expense a revolutionary journal that didn’t pay, because those who would have liked to buy it couldn’t, for the most part, afford to, and because those who could have afforded to didn’t want to, and because, in short, journals run by nice people never do pay.

Lucy played the ’cello, the instrument usually selected by the small in stature.  In the intervals of this pursuit, she went about the world open-eyed to all new-burnished joys that came within her vision, and lived by admiration, hope and love, and played with Peter at any game, wise or foolish, that turned up.  Often Urquhart played with them, and they were a happy party of three.  Peter and Lucy shared, among other things, an admiration of Urquhart.

Peter was finding the world delightful just now.  This first winter in London was probably the happiest time he ever had.  He hardly missed Cambridge; he certainly didn’t miss the money that the Robinsons had.  His profession was to touch and handle the things he loved; the Ignorant Rich were delightful; the things he bought for them were beyond all words; the sales he attended were revels of joy; it was all extremely entertaining, and Leslie a dear, and everyone very kind.  The affection that always found its way to Peter through his disabilities spoke for something in him that must, it would seem, be there; possibly it was merely his friendly smile.  He was anyhow of the genus comedian, that readily endears itself.