“He has no kind feeling for me,” said Peter dully.  “He is more annoyed with me than with you.”

Hilary jerked his head impatiently.

“Nonsense.  You want to shirk; you want to leave me to get out of the mess for myself.  Oh, of course, you’re not legally involved; I am aware of that; you can leave the sinking ship if you choose, and save yourself.”

Peggy said, “Don’t be ridiculous, darling.  Peter’s doing his best for us, as he always has,” and came and stood at her brother-in-law’s side, kind and big and comforting, with a hand on his arm.

Hilary went on querulously, “I’m asking Peter to do a simple thing—­to use his friendship with the Urquharts to help me out of this mess.  If you don’t want to see Lord Evelyn, Peter, you can go to Denis.  He’s a friend of yours; he’s—­he’s your kind of step-brother.  You can easily persuade him to get the thing hushed up.  You’ve always pretended that he was a friend of yours.  Go and see him, then, for heaven’s sake, and help us all out of this miserable predicament.”

Peter was still silent, staring down at the dark ribbon of shining water that lapped against two old brick walls, a shut lane full of stars.

Peggy, her hand on his arm, said gently, “Oh, Peter’ll do his best for us, of course he will, won’t you, Peter.”

Peter sighed very faintly into the dark night.

“I will do anything I can, naturally.  It won’t be much, you know.”

“You will go to the Urquharts to-morrow morning, and appeal to them?” said Hilary.

“Yes,” said Peter.  “I will do that.”

Hilary breathed a sigh of relief, and flung himself into a chair.

“Thanks, Peter.  I believe that is the best we can do.  You will persuade them at least to be just, not to push the matter to unfair extremes.... Oh, my God, what a life!” His beautiful, unhappy face was hidden in his hands; he shuddered from head to foot, feeling horribly sick.  The Margerison organism was sensitive.

Peggy, bending over him, drew caressing fingers through his dark hair and said, “Go to bed, you poor old dear, and don’t worry any more to-night.  Worry won’t help now, will it?”

“Bed?” said Hilary.  “Bed?  What’s the use of that?  I shouldn’t sleep a wink.  I have a frightful head, and I must go and find Vyvian and tell him.”

Peggy sniffed.  “Much Vyvian’ll care!  He’s been in bad odour all his life, I should fancy.  One more row won’t bother him much.  I wish it would; it would be almost worth while to be upset if Guy Vyvian was going to be upset too—­the waster.  Well, I wonder anyhow will this show that silly little Rhoda what sort of a creature she’s been making a golden calf of....  Well, go and wake Vyvian, then, darling, and then come and tell me what he said to it.  Peter, you’re dropping to sleep as you stand.”

Peter went to bed.  There didn’t seem to be anything to stay up for, and bed is a comforting friend on these occasions.  Hilary had a perverse tendency to sit up all night when the worst had happened and he had a frightful head; Peter’s way with life was more amenable; he always took what comfort was offered him.  Bed is a good place; it folds protecting, consoling arms about you, and gives at best oblivion, at worst a blessed immunity from action.