She patted Peter on the arm, softly.

“Was it a nice evening, then?  No, not very, I think.  Dear, dear!  You both look so unutterably tired.  I wonder had you better go to bed, quite straight?”

It seemed to be suggested as a last resource of the desperate, though the hour was close on midnight.

“And the children have been pillow-fighting, till Mr. Vyvian—­the creature—­came down with nothing in particular on, to complain to me that he couldn’t sleep.  Sleep, you know!  It wasn’t after ten—­but it seems he had a headache, as usual, because Mrs. Johnson had insisted on going to look at pictures with him and Rhoda, and her remarks were such—­Nervous prostration, poor Mr. Vyvian.  So I’ve had Illuminato down here with me since then.  He wants to go to you, Peter, as usual.”

Peter took the scarlet bundle, and it burrowed against his shirt-front with a contented sigh.  Peggy watched the two for a moment, then said to the uncle, “You poor little boy, you’re tireder than Hilary even.  You must surely go to bed.  But isn’t Lord Evelyn rather a dear?”

“Quite a dear,” Peter answered her, his face bent over the round cropped head.  “Altogether charming and delightful.  Do you know, though, I’m not really fond of bridge.  Jig-saw is my game—­and we didn’t have it.  That’s why I’m tired I expect.  And because there was a Mr. Cheriton, who stared, and seemed somehow to have taken against us—­didn’t he, Hilary?  Or perhaps it was only his queer manners, dear Jim.  Anyhow, he made me feel shy.  It takes it out of one, not being liked.  Nervous prostration, like poor Mr. Vyvian.  So let’s go to bed, Hilary, and leave these two to watch together.”

“Give me the froglet.”  She took it from his arms, gently, and kissed first one then the other.

“Good night, little Peter.  You are a darling entirely, and I love you.  And don’t worry, not over not being liked or anything else, because it surely isn’t worth it.”

She was always affectionate and maternal to Peter; but to-night she was more so than usual.  Looking at her as she stood in her loose, slatternly neglige, beneath the extravagantly blazing chandelier, the red bundle cuddling a round black head into her neck, her grey eyes smiling at him, lit with love and laughter and a pity that lay deeper than both, Peter was caught into her atmosphere of debonair and tranquil restfulness, that said always, “Take life easy; nothing’s worth worrying over, not problems or poverty or even one’s sins.”  How entirely true.  Nothing was worth worrying over; certainly other people’s strange points of view weren’t.  It was a gospel of ease and laissez-faire well suited to Peter’s temperament.  He smiled at Peggy and Hilary and their son, and went up the marble stairs to bed.  He was haunted till he slept by the memory of Hilary’s nervous, tired face as he had seen it in the moonlight in the gondola, and again in the hall as he said good night.  Hilary