Peter, about tea-time, went to see Lucy.  He went by the Piccadilly tube, from Holborn to South Kensington—­(he was being recklessly extravagant to-day, but it was a holiday after all, and very hot).

Peter climbed the stairs to the Hopes’ drawing-room and opened the door, and what he had often dreamed of had come about, for Denis was there, only in a strange, undreamed-of way that made him giddy, so he stood quite still for a moment and looked.

He would have turned away and gone before they saw him; but they had seen him, and Lucy said, “Oh, Peter—­come in,” and Denis said, “Oh ... hullo,” and held out his hand.

Peter, who was dizzily readjusting certain rather deeply-rooted ideas, said, “How do you do?  I’ve come ...  I’ve come to tea, you know.”

“’Course you have,” said Lucy.  Then she looked up into Peter’s face and smiled, and slipped her hand into his.  “How nice; we’re three again.”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“But I must go,” said Urquhart.  “I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve got to meet a man....  I shall see you some time, shan’t I, Margery?  Why don’t you ever come and see me, you slacker?  Well, good-bye.  Good-bye, Lucy.  Lunch to-morrow; don’t forget.”

He was gone.

Peter sat on the coal-scuttle, and Lucy gave him tea, with three lumps in it.

“Thank you,” said Peter.

Lucy looked at him.  “You did know, didn’t you?  All this time, I mean?  I didn’t tell you, because I never tell you things, of course.  You always know them.  And this particularly.  You did know it, Peter?  But when you came in you looked ... you looked as if you didn’t.”

“I was stupid,” said Peter.  “I ought to have known.”

Looking back, he saw that he certainly ought.  He certainly must have, only that his vision had been blocked by a certain deeply-rooted idea, that was as old as his growth.  He had assumed, without words.  He had thought that she too had assumed; neither had ever required words to elucidate their ideas one to the other; they had kept words for the other things, the jolly, delightful things of the foreground.

“How long?” asked Peter, drinking his tea to warm him, for, though it was so hot outside, he felt very cold in here.

She told him.  “Oh, since the beginning, I think.  I thought you knew, Peter....  We didn’t say anything about it till quite lately.  Only we both knew.”

She came and sat on the rug by his side, and slipped her hand into his.  “Are you glad, Peter?  Please, Peter, be glad.”

“I will presently,” said Peter, with one of his fainter smiles.  “Let me just get used to it, and I will.”

She whispered, stroking his hand, “We’ve always had such fun, Peter, we three.  Haven’t we?  Let’s go on having it.”

“Yes,” said Peter.  “Let’s.”

He was vague still, and a little dizzy, but he could smile at her now.  After all, wasn’t it splendid?  Denis and Lucy—­the two people he loved best in the world; so immeasurably best that beside them everyone else was no class at all.