When Peter, in the interval between the first and second ballet, entered the box of Lady Mary he formally embarked upon his career as a social figure.

Wenderby was Lady Mary's companion of the evening, for he sat securely beside her as Peter came. But she was radiantly pleased to welcome Peter, and even seemed anxious to exaggerate her pleasure.

The two men were vividly contrasted. Peter stood for youth—resilient, athletic, and eager. Wenderby as perfectly expressed the wisdom, tolerance, and disillusion of one who already had lived. He had just successfully finished a hard campaign in the country, and he was tired. The lines of his forehead were deeper to-night than he knew.

Lady Mary's cordial reception scattered Peter's vague misgiving. It restored to him the woman who, on the terrace at Highbury, had accepted his worship, thanked him, and understood.

"Your mother isn't here?" she said, as Peter found a chair.

"I could not persuade her."

"I must know her at once. Antony is quite positive about it."

"Antony is right," said Peter. "She is wonderful."

"Lord Wenderby is more fortunate than I am. He has seen her already."

"I'm afraid of her," said Wenderby. "She has that sort of silence which spoils my best conversation."

"You mustn't allow Lord Wenderby to frighten you." Peter paused, and added quite simply: "You will love my mother."

"I must meet her at once; but I cannot go out to-morrow. Will you bring her to me at Arlington Street?"

Peter at this was entirely happy. How could he have doubted that his precious intimacy with Lady Mary would be broken. Talking thus of his mother, she invited him to come closer yet. Peter wondered if Wenderby had ever seen her tears. She passed through her hands a string of pearls that hung about her neck, and Peter saw in them the frozen symbol of drops more precious. His eyes, as this conceit came into his mind, rested upon the stones as they fell through her fingers. He did not know he was looking at the hand he had kissed. Lady Mary drew it behind her fan.

"You like my pearls?" she said abruptly.

Peter started a little.

"They are very beautiful, but you do not need them," he said bluntly.

The crudity of his compliment was more effective than the most artful flattery. Wenderby looked wistfully at the two young faces, conscious that between them youth was singing. Peter's adoration was plainly written, and Lady Mary received it with a delicate flush of colour and a perceptible nervousness. Wenderby had never before seen her in the least perturbed.

He hastily turned the conversation, commenting on the ballet they had just seen—a ballet of lust and blood. It had stepped from the pages of Sir Richard Burton, barbaric in colour and music—frankly sadistic.

"This," he said, indicating the rows of brilliant and respectable people who had watched it, "is a feast indeed for the cynical. How many of these people realise what they have seen? How horrified they would be if you told them in plain English what they have just heard in plain music!"

"You are a musician?" Peter asked politely.

"Enough of a musician to know that even Sir Richard Burton never spoke plainer than this Russian fellow. It seems to me quite extraordinary that civilised people are able to sit serenely beside one another in a public place and hear things which they would blush to read in a private room."

It was strange that this ballet should recall a chapter almost forgotten. Peter, looking at Lady Mary, saw again a cherry-coloured ribbon folded between the leaves of her brother's book. Peter knew she had not touched that old fever. He could not think of her as kindling him in that savage way. He saw himself forever humbly repeating the caress of adoration.

Peter left at the end of the interval, fearing too eagerly to force himself. It was enough that he was to see Lady Mary again on the following day.