And hence Peter, who lay and looked at Lord Hugh Urquhart’s son with wide, bright eyes.  With just such eyes—­only holding, let us hope, an adoration more masked—­Sylvia Hope had long ago looked at Lord Hugh, seeing him beautiful, delicately featured, pale, and fair of skin, built with a strong fineness, and smiling with pleasant eyes.  Lord Hugh’s beauty of person and charm of manner had possibly (not certainly) meant more to Sylvia Hope than his son’s meant to her son; and his prowess at football (if he had any) had almost certainly meant less.  But, apart from the glamour of physical skill and strength and the official glory of captainship, the same charm worked on mother and son.  The soft, quick, unemphasised voice, with the break of a laugh in it, had precisely the same disturbing effect on both.

“Well,” Urquhart was saying, “when will they let you play again?  You must buck up and get all right quickly....  I shouldn’t wonder if you made a pretty decent three-quarter sometime....  You ought to use your arm as soon as you can, you know, or it gets stiff, and then you can’t, and that’s an awful bore....  Hurt like anything when I hauled it in, didn’t it?  But it was much better to do it at once.”

“Oh, much,” Peter agreed.

“How does it feel now?”

“Oh, all right.  I don’t feel it much.  I say, do you think I ought to use it at once, in case it gets stiff?” Peter’s eyes were a little anxious; he didn’t much want to use it at once.

But Urquhart opined that this would be over-great haste.  He departed, and his last words were, “You must come to breakfast with me when you’re up again.”

Peter lay, glorified, and thought it all over.  Urquhart knew, then; he had known from the first.  He had known when he said, “I say, you, Margerison, just cut down to the field ...”

Not for a moment did it seem at all strange to Peter that Urquhart should have had this knowledge and given no sign till now.  What, after all, was it to a hero that the family circle of an obscure individual such as he should have momentarily intersected the hero’s own orbit?  School has this distinction—­families take a back place; one is judged on one’s own individual merits.  Peter would much rather think that Urquhart had come to see him because he had put his arm out and Urquhart had put it in (really though, only temporarily in) than because his mother had once been Urquhart’s stepmother.

Peter’s arm did not recover so soon as Urquhart’s sanguineness had predicted.  Perhaps he began taking precautions against stiffness too soon; anyhow he did not that term make a decent three-quarter, or any sort of a three-quarter at all.  It always took Peter a long time to get well of things; he was easy to break and hard to mend—­made in Germany, as he was frequently told.  So cheaply made was he that he could perform nothing.  Defeated dreams lived in his eyes; but to light them there burned perpetually the blue and luminous lamps of undefeated