In the morning, about eleven o’clock, Peter went to the Ca’ delle Gemme.  That had to be done, so it was no use delaying.  He asked for Lord Evelyn Urquhart, and supposed that the servant who showed him in was astonished at his impudence.  However, he was permitted to wait in the reception-room while the servant went to acquaint Lord Evelyn with his presence.  He waited some time, standing in the middle of the big room, looking at some splinters of glass and china which had been left on the marble floor, forming on his tongue what he was going to say.  He could form nothing that was easy to say; honestly he didn’t know whether, when the door should open and that tall, elegant, fastidious figure should walk in, he would find himself able to say anything at all.  He feared he might only grow hot, and stammer, and slink out.  But he pulled himself together; he must do his best; it was quite necessary.  He would try to say, “Lord Evelyn, I know it is abominably impertinent of me to come into your house like this.  Will you forgive me this once?  I have come to ask you, is there any consideration whatever, any sort of reparation my brother and I can make, which will be of any use as amends for what we did?  If so, of course we should be grateful for the chance....”

That was what he would try to say.  And what he would mean was:  “Will you let Hilary off?  Will you let him just go away into obscurity, without further disgrace?  Isn’t he disgraced enough already?  Because you are kind, and because you have been fond of me, and because I ask you, will you do this much?”

And what the answer would be, Peter had not the faintest idea.  To him personally the answer was indifferent.  From his point of view, the worst had already happened, and no further disgrace could affect him much.  But Hilary desperately cared, so he must do his best; he must walk into the fire and wrest out of it what he could.

And at last the door opened, and Denis Urquhart came in.

He was just as usual, leisurely and fair and tranquil, only usually he smiled at Peter, and to-day he did not smile.  One might have fancied under his tranquillity a restrained nervousness.  He did not shake hands; but then Peter and he never did shake hands when they met.

He said, “Sit down, won’t you.  My uncle isn’t available just now, so I have come instead....  You have something to say to him, haven’t you?”

He sat down himself, and waited, looking at the splinters of glass on the floor.

Peter stood, and his breath came shortly.  Yes, he had something to say to Lord Evelyn, but nothing to Lord Evelyn’s nephew.  He grew hot and cold, and stammered something, he did not know what.

“Yes?” said Denis, in his soft, casual voice, politely expectant.

Peter, who did not, after all, lack a certain desperate courage, walked into the fire, with braced will.  It was bad that Denis should be brought into the business; but it had to be gone through, all the same.