His high, unsteady voice trailed away into silence.  Peter, out of all the dim beauty of the night, saw only the pale, disturbed, frowning face, the quivering hand that held the lean cigar.  All the strangeness and the mystery of the mysterious world were here concentrated.  Numbly and dully he heard the soft, rhythmic splashing of the dipping oar, the turning cry of “Premie!” Then, sharper, “Sciar, Signori, sciar!” as they nearly jostled another gondola, swinging round sharply into a moonless lane of ancient palaces.

Peter presently said, “But ...” and there stopped.  What could he say, beyond “but?”

Hilary answered him sharply, “Well?” and then, after another pause, Peter pulled himself together, gave up trying to thread the maze of his perplexity, and said soberly, “I beg your pardon, Hilary.  I’m an ass.”

Hilary let out his breath sharply, and resumed his cigar.

“It’s possible, of course,” he said, more quietly, “that you may be right and I wrong about the things.  That’s another question altogether.  I may be a fool:  I only resent being called a knave. Really, you know!”

“I never meant that,” Peter hopelessly began to explain.  And, indeed, now that Hilary disclaimed it, it did seem a far too abominable thing that he had implied.  He had hurt Hilary; he deserved to be kicked.  His anger with himself rose.  To hurt anyone was atrocious; to hurt Hilary unforgivable.  He would have done a great deal now to make amends.

He stammered over it.  “I did think, I’m afraid, that you and Cheriton were doing it to make him happy or something.  I’m awfully sorry; I was an ass; I ought to have known.  But it never occurred to me that you didn’t kn—­that you had a different opinion of the things.  I say, Hilary—­Cheriton knows!  I saw him know.  He knew, and he was wondering what I was going to say.”

“Knew, knew, knew!” Hilary nervously exploded.  “There you go again.  You’re intolerable, Peter, really.  All the spoiling you’ve had has gone to your head.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter again.  “I meant, Cheriton agreed with me, I’m sure....  But, Hilary—­those statuettes—­you can’t really....  They’re mid-Victorian, and positively offensive!” His voice rose shrilly.  They had been so horrible, Diana and Actaeon.  He couldn’t forget them, in their podgy sentimentality.  “And—­and that chalice ...” he shuddered over it—­“and—­”

“That’ll do, thanks,” Hilary broke in.  “You can say at once that you disagree with me about everything I admire, and leave it there.  But, if I may ask you, don’t say so to Lord Evelyn, if you can resist the temptation to show me up before him.  It will only bother and disturb him, whichever of us he ends by agreeing with.  He’s shown that he trusts my taste more or less, by giving me his paper to edit, and I should think we might leave it at that.”

“Yes, the paper”—­Peter was reminded of it, and it became a distracting puzzle.  Hilary thought Diana and Actaeon and the Siena chalice good things—­and Hilary edited an art paper.  What in the name of all that was horrible did he put in it?  A light was shed on Signor Leroni, who was, said the Gem, a good dealer in plaques, and who was, Peter had thought, a bare-faced purveyor of shams.  Peter began to question the quality of the osele, that Leslie had purchased from Signor Sardi.