When Peter found his uncle stretched helplessly in bed with all the ceremony about him of an urgent case, he reproached himself for having thought of him so little during his years of health. He had taken his uncle for granted as the sanguine and gracious benefactor. It had not occurred to him to probe the motives of his uncle's affection, or to ask whether he was making him an adequate return.

Now it was too late. When Peter arrived in Hamingburgh his uncle was already unconscious, and he did not recover sufficiently to recognise his nephew. A sudden seizure ended with a rush of blood to the brain; and Peter was left heir to a personal estate of over £90,000. Peter had to be content with his mother's assurance that his uncle died with entire faith in his nephew's ability to spend a fortune.

The next weeks passed in ending all connection with Hamingburgh, which Peter now found intolerable, and in preparing for life in London commensurate with his new ideas. He took rooms for himself and his mother in Curzon Street, to be made ready for the autumn season.

"We will have everything very beautiful, and we will have only what is necessary," he told his mother as they talked things over in their flat at Golder's Green. "Of course we must sell all this stuff."

He waved his hands in an inclusive gesture toward the chairs and tables. Mrs. Paragon mildly looked about her.

"But, Peter, I thought you liked all this pretty furniture."

"It's modern," said Peter briefly. "There is no such thing as modern furniture. Ask Marbury."

He came and sat on the arm of his mother's chair.

"I must get Marbury to help. I want to see you talking to Lady Mary over a tea-table by the Brother's Adam."

"Peter, this is the third time to-day you have mentioned Lord Marbury's sister."

"Naturally, mother. This is polling day at Highbury. I've been wondering how things are going."

A few days later Marbury came to town and took his seat as member for Sandhaven. Peter secured him for the following evening, and they all three dined together at the flat in Golder's Green. Marbury was called upon for advice as to Curzon Street.

"Peter," he said, "this is a new phase. Don't encourage him, Mrs. Paragon. He wasn't intended for an exquisite. He's too robust."

"He does not need encouraging," said Mrs. Paragon. She had calmly accepted Peter's new enthusiasm, and now only wondered how long it would endure.

"Peter has already sold all our furniture," she added by way of information. "It will disappear at the end of the week."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" asked Marbury, exchanging an intelligible smile with Mrs. Paragon.

Mrs. Paragon quietly answered him, unaware of the irony which lurked in her undisturbed acceptance of the inevitable.

"Peter says that no one stays in London during these next months. He says we must go to the North of Scotland."

"What are you going to do there?" asked Marbury.

"Peter is going to fish," said Mrs. Paragon.

When the time came Mrs. Paragon discovered that her part in the holiday in North Britain was to attend Peter during long happy days in lonely places where Peter mysteriously dangled in lakes and rivers. She dreamed away the time beside the basket of food and shared with Peter pleasant meals under the sky, quickened with his lively account of the morning's work.

News came once into their wilderness when Eustace Haversham died. In the letters Peter exchanged with Marbury and his sister he learned that the end had come at the close of a happy day in the sun, with people arriving and departing upon the terrace at Highbury. Haversham had smilingly received the congratulations of his friends upon his better health; then, with a look in his eyes showing that he at any rate knew better, he had died as the light fell from the bronze figure fronting the moor.

In long hours upon loch and river Peter sometimes thought of Lady Mary and their last meeting. He thought of her less as a woman than a lovely symbol of the life he was now called to lead. She stood in his eye, radiant and proud, thrown into relief by a mutter of poverty and ill-will. She was for Peter the supreme achievement of the time. The cool touch of her hand on his lips raised in him no remembered rapture. It had been not a personal caress but an act of worship, for which he could imagine no other possible expression. She charmed him, and made him afraid. The delicate play of her mind was intimately enjoyed by Peter in retrospect when he was able to realise the indulgence with which she had met his blundering.

Peter remembered his father and his years of revolt without misgiving for the way he now seemed to be taking. These memories enforced him towards all for which Lady Mary now stood. He so clearly had been wrong.

Early in September Peter and his mother returned to London. Peter, fearing to be bantered, furnished the rooms in Curzon Street without advice. The season was just beginning when they took possession.

Peter soon read in the fashionable intelligence that Lord Haversham—Marbury had shed the younger title—had come to town for the autumn session. He also saw that Wenderby had been staying at Highbury as the guest of Lady Mary and her brother. This displeased Peter. He would not surrender his animosity against Wenderby, or admit that he was mistaken. He owed this to himself in justification of his outbreak during the election. Now that he read Wenderby's name beside the name of Lady Mary, Peter was surprised to find how much he distrusted the man. He threw down the paper in a small passion.

"Why, Peter," said Mrs. Paragon, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing, mother."

Mrs. Paragon tried another way of approach.

"What's the news this morning?" she lightly inquired.

"Lord Haversham has come to town."

"With Lady Mary?" Mrs. Paragon quickly asked.

"Yes," said Peter. "Also with Lord Wenderby." He kicked the newspaper and went to the window.

"I see," said Peter's mother.

Perhaps Mrs. Paragon was right, and Peter was really jealous. Wenderby clearly belonged to the party which had arrived in town. He knew the language. He did not make heroically foolish scenes at a public meeting. Probably he had never incurred the laughter of Lady Mary. She did not make allowances for him, or look at him with protection in her eyes, or take an interest in him as someone from a strange world. Wenderby knew all that Peter had yet to learn.

Peter himself was worried to account for his ill humour, and even came to the point of asking himself the question which his mother had already answered. He decided that he was not personally jealous. Rather he was jealous of the privilege and experience which made Wenderby at home and at ease in the world which Peter desired to enjoy. Haversham had told him that Wenderby was a charming fellow. Peter wondered whether he would ever be a charming fellow; and, in a fit of misgiving, began to exhaust the possibilities of self-contempt. He had had a glimpse of the beautiful life; but suppose he were not worthy to enter. Suppose Haversham could not be the friend of a young colt who had nothing in the world to fit him for an agreeable part in the social comedy. Suppose he would never again come into touch with exquisite creatures like Lady Mary. Suppose he were doomed to follow the witty pageant of London life (which now was a Paradise in Peter's fancy) only through the columns of the fashionable intelligence. Suppose it were his destiny henceforth to hear of Lady Mary only when she happened to be entertaining Wenderby.

Peter was chewing this bitter cud at his mother's tea-table in Curzon Street when his man-servant (Peter, to his mother's dismay, had insisted on a man-servant) announced the figures of his meditation by name. Peter rose in a whirl, and before he had possession of his mind Haversham and Wenderby were taking tea with Mrs. Paragon. Mrs. Paragon received her guests with monumental calm, answered their inquiries after her holiday in Scotland with a quiet precision which suggested an irony of which really she was quite incapable, and wondered meanwhile why Peter was less talkative than a meeting with his best friend seemed to require.

"Peter," said Haversham at last, "you seem depressed."

"Not at all." Peter was the more laconic because he was suffering a quiet, persistent scrutiny from Wenderby.

"This," said Wenderby, "is surely not the sanguine young man who brought me to judgment."

"You remember that?" asked Peter briefly.

"I have come to apologise," Wenderby explained.

"I told you he should apologise," said Haversham.

"Isn't that for me to do?" asked Peter.

"I don't think so," Wenderby smiled. "You lost your collar and were nearly strangled."

"I would do it again," said Peter cheerfully.

"I admit the provocation," agreed Wenderby. He was quite unruffled by the vibrant conviction of Peter's voice.

"You must make allowances, Peter," put in Haversham. "It was a misfortune for all of us. That speech might have lost me the seat. Wenderby always puts public interest before personal feeling."

"The speech was a great success," said Wenderby. "It did not lose the seat, but it won the Cabinet. I have wrung out fifty-seven millions. The Tories could hardly have done better."

"No politics," protested Haversham. "Peter doesn't understand."

"How is Lady Mary?" asked Peter suddenly.

Haversham's phrase about "personal feeling" had stuck in his mind.

Wenderby glanced keenly at Peter, so keenly that Peter at once felt his question had touched a nerve.

"You must come and see for yourself," said Haversham. "We're moving into Arlington Street and Mary is being worried with decorators. She has even interviewed a plumber. I suggest that you look in at the Ballet to-night and encourage her."

"How shall I encourage her?" Peter gloomily asked.

"You are young, Peter, and youth is infectious."

"I wish I could catch it," said Wenderby; and Peter detected envy.

Shortly after they had left Peter made ready for Covent Garden. His master-thought was to get into touch with the life which at Highbury had so urgently attracted him. An encounter with Lady Mary would be the touchstone of his claim to be socially accepted. Also Peter knew that Wenderby would be there. He had seen in Wenderby the faintest gesture of annoyance when Haversham had mentioned the Ballet. Peter was sensitive to the least indication in Wenderby of a special interest in Lady Mary. Already there was a mutual faint dislike. Peter resented the keen appraisement of Wenderby's searching eyes. He felt the rapid working of a trained and subtle mind busily estimating his value. Wenderby, for his part, detected in Peter a wilful energy which, as a politician, he abhorred.

Mrs. Paragon preferred not to accompany Peter. He dined alone with her, and she found him clouded and cold. Afterwards he picked his way by cab to the Opera House, sitting bolt upright with a vague presage of complications to ensue. He joined the happy few carried to pleasure through the shining streets. Summer lingered wherever a foothold was offered to the green. It was warm, with cool air soft as the hum of the London traffic. But Peter's senses were shut to his position of ease. He was restive still under the penetrating eyes of Wenderby. He felt as if he were going into an arena. More than one woman turned in the crush of cars at Covent Garden to look at Peter's vivid, ingenuous face as he sat erect, frowning a little, staring blindly ahead. He was not actually thinking. Curious faint emotions came and went. His consciousness was ruled by a shimmering figure, infinite in grace and promise; but it rested under the threat of a cloud, which now was seen to grow dark and then to vanish.

A little later Peter found Lady Mary with his glasses; Wenderby stood beside her in the box. She saw Peter almost as his glasses were levelled, and leaned eagerly forward to greet him. Wenderby looked like one interrupted, and Peter could see how thoughtful he suddenly became. Then the lights were lowered.