Her host muttered something about closing his mail.

“But are we going to the circus?” fretted little George Moore.  His mother hardly heard him.

A moment later, Julia, the maid, appealed to her submissively.

“Shall you pick up the cup?” repeated the doctor’s wife.  “No.  No, indeed, I wouldn’t, Julia.  Yes, you can clear the table, I think; we’ve all finished.”

She led her sons down to the fascinating realm of dogs and horses, vaguely uneasy, yet unwilling to admit her fears.  An endless warm half hour crept by.  Then, glancing toward the house, she saw Sidney and Jean deep in conversation on the porch, and a moment later Sidney came to find her.

The boy was obstinate, he told her briefly—­adding, with a look in his kind eyes that was quite new to her, that Peter had met his match, and would realize it sooner or later.  Mary protested against there being any further talk of the circus that day, but Sidney would not refuse the disappointed eyes of the small Moores.  In the end, the doctor’s family went off alone in the motor-car.

“Don’t worry, Mary,” said Sidney, kindly, as he tucked her in comfortably.  “Peter’s had nothing but women and servants so far.  Now he’s got to learn to obey!”

“But such a baby, Sidney!” she reminded him.

“He’s older than I was, Mary, when my poor father and Uncle Larry—­”

“Yes—­yes, I know!” she assented hurriedly.  “Good-by!”

“Good-by!” repeated a hardy little voice from an upper window.  Mary looked up to see Peter, composed and smiling, looking down from the nursery sill.

All the next day, and the next, Mary Moore’s thoughts were at the Hall.  She told her husband all about it on the afternoon of the second day, for no word or sign had come from Jean, and real anxiety began to haunt her.  She and the doctor were roaming about their pretty, shabby garden, Mrs. Moore’s little hand, where she loved to have it, in the crook of his big arm.  The doctor, stopping occasionally to shake a rose post with his free hand, or to break a dead blossom from its stalk, scowled through the recital, even while contentedly enjoying his wife, his garden, and his pipe.

Before he could make a definite comment, they were interrupted by Sidney himself, who brought his big riding horse up close to the fence and waved his whip with a shout of greeting.  The doctor went to meet him, Mary, a little pale, following.

“Good day to you!” said Sidney Carolan, baring his head without a smile.  “I’m bound to Barville; my editor is there for a few days, and I may have to dine with him.  I stopped to ask if Mary would run in and see Jean this afternoon.  She’s feeling a little down.”

“Of course I will!” said Mary, heartily.

There was a pause.

“Mary’s told you that we’re having an ugly time with the boy?” said Sidney, then, combing his horse’s mane with big gloved fingers.