On the last statement Peter’s voice sank a little in pitch, so that they hardly heard it.  But the last statement mattered to no one but Peter.

Hilary had got up sharply at the first words, and stood very still to listen, letting out one long breath of weary despair.  Peggy came and stood close to him, and took one slim white hand in her large kind ones, and gently held it.  The fat was indeed in the fire.  Poor old Hilary!  How he would feel it!  Peggy divined that what stung Hilary most deeply at the moment was Peter’s discovery of his faithlessness.

It was of that that his first shamed, incoherent words were.

“What was I to do?  How could I break abruptly with the old methods, as you suggested?  It had to come gradually.  You know nothing of business, Peter—­nothing.”  His voice ran up the scale of protesting self-defence.

“Nothing,” Peter admitted drearily.  Hilary’s shame before him could hardly now add to the badness of the situation, as it had once done; the badness of situations has a limit, and this one had reached its limit some three hours since, just before he had laughed in Lord Evelyn’s drawing-room.

“Oh,” said Peter, very tired suddenly, “never mind me; what does that matter?  The point is ... well, you see the point, naturally.”

Yes, Hilary saw the point.  With a faint groan he ran his fingers through his hair and began to pace up and down the room in agitation.

He said, “That brute Cheriton....  An execrable bounder; I always knew it.  What right had he?...  It’s too horrible, too abominable....  Just when we were doing our best to get the thing onto straight lines....”  He wheeled about and paced back again, with quick, uneven steps.  Between him and the motionless Peter, Peggy stood, looking from one to the other.  Her merry eyes were quite grave now.  The situation was certainly appalling.

“We must leave Venice,” said Peggy, on a sigh.  That seemed, certainly, the only thing to be done.

Hilary groaned again.

“Oh, Lord, what are we let in for?  What will be the result, if he prosecutes?  It may be utter ruin....  I know nothing of these things.  Of course, in justice nothing could be done to us—­for, after all, what harm have we done?  Anyone may insert advertisements for pay, and it only amounted to that....  But justice isn’t taken into much account in the law-courts....  It is a horrible, cast-iron system—­the relic of a barbarous age....  I don’t know what we mayn’t be in for, or how we shall come out of it.  You don’t know either, Peter; you know nothing of law—­nothing.  It mustn’t come into court; that is unthinkable.  We will make full apologies—­any restitution within our power that Lord Evelyn demands....  I shall go there; I shall see him about it, and appeal to his better feelings.  He has been a friend of mine.  He has always been good to you, Peter.  The memory of your mother....  Appeal to that.  You must go to him and see what can be done.  Yes, it had better be you; he has a kinder feeling for you, I believe, than for me.”