In the following months Peter realised to what extent his late devotion to Lady Mary had filled him. Now that she was only one of his best friends, he was at first vacant of enthusiasm. Then he began to discover all kinds of neglected ties with people whom before he had hardly noticed. Ostensibly Lady Mary was still supreme, but, curiously as it seemed to Peter, though her sacrifice and the wonder of her great career set her higher in his admiration, it had made this admiration less tremulously personal. The ecstasy had gone out of it. It no longer shut out the undistinguished world. He discovered now that he had other friends; that he was liked by some of them; that their liking was gratifying and merited some small return.

Since Haversham had been claimed by his public and hereditary life, Peter had become attached to a frequent visitor at Arlington Street.

James Atterbury was a young and successful caricaturist who had also written and produced several plays. His activities were financially unnecessary, so that in a sense he was an amateur. He was socially popular, and Peter met him everywhere. Gradually he had taken Haversham's place. Like Haversham, he was tolerant and urbane. He had long abandoned those visions which now were driving Peter restlessly from day to day. He was a cheerful man of pleasure, living for all that was agreeable and could be decently enjoyed. He had watched, with respectful irony, Peter's absorbed devotion to Lady Mary, and had keenly speculated as to how it would end. When the end came, Haversham plainly hinted that Atterbury would do well to help Peter recover an early interest in people and things.

"Certainly," Atterbury had said. "I'm rehearsing a new play at the Vaudeville. Peter shall attend."

"Is that adequate, do you think?"

"Yes, Tony. Rehearsing a play is the most distracting thing in the world."

So Peter, plunged into a new atmosphere, sat for hours upon the small stage at the Vaudeville watching, with growing interest and amusement, the pulling together of a mixed company.

"It's like a children's party," Atterbury told him. "At present we are a little shy, but soon it will be a bear-garden. They will forget that I am the author, to be loved and respected. By the time we are ready for the public, I shan't be on speaking terms with anybody."

"Except Vivette," suggested Peter, looking towards Atterbury's principal lady.

"You've noticed Vivette?"

"I've noticed you always give way to her."

"Not always."

"Usually, then."

"Usually she is right. She is really improving my play."

Peter looked with greater interest at the vivacious young woman now holding the stage. She was full of vitality, which somehow she shared with all who acted with her. As soon as she left the stage, life went out of the performance.

"What is her name?" Peter asked.

"Formally you may call her Mademoiselle Claire."

"French?"

"Every country in the world."

At this point the rehearsal again became animated. Atterbury was soon fighting to be heard. The dispute was at last arranged, and he returned to Peter.

"Vivette has been looking at you, Peter," he said as the play began to go smoothly again.

"How do you know?"

"Because she has told me."

"What did she say?"

"She asked for the name of my solemn friend."

"Anybody looks solemn beside you," Peter grumbled.

He resentfully examined his companion. Atterbury was roseate and sanguine; but he looked at Peter as gravely as he could.

"I hope you are not hankering after the admiration of Vivette," he said. "She isn't safe."

"What do you mean?" asked Peter.

"She looks upon everything nice in life as a sort of sugar-plum. If she likes you, Peter, she will eat you."

"You mean she is a wicked woman?"

"Not at all," twinkled Atterbury. "I mean she is a small child who happens to be greedy. She would think no more harm of making a hearty meal of your ingenuous self than I should of swallowing an oyster."

Vivette slipped from the imaginary door of a room that did not exist—they were rehearsing without scenery—and came to them before they were aware.

"You have shocked your friend," she said to Atterbury, looking at Peter. Peter angrily composed his protesting face, as Atterbury presented him.

"Peter Paragon is easily shocked," Atterbury said. "I hope you did not hear what we were talking about?"

"No."

"It was harmless," Atterbury assured her.

"Do tell me," she pleaded. "I don't often hear anything harmless."

"Impossible."

"Wasn't it to do with oysters? Let's go to lunch. We shan't make any way this morning."

They lunched together. It was an agreeable triangle; but Atterbury, with amusement, saw he would soon be unnecessary. Peter, in reaction from the emotional strain of his last adventure, found in Vivette a pleasant holiday. Peter consented with Vivette to relieve the dignity and stress of life upon the heroic plane. He came to delight in the quick gleam of her eyes.

The eyes of Vivette were brown, easily lighting, but shallow. They flickered into fun, and went suddenly out. They could never be passionate or deep, but they talked with him, and drew him to admire the play of her lips, slightly full, the life and light of her face; the sudden tale of her blood which came and went at a word or gesture.

She did everything with an equal enthusiasm. She had the mimic soul to catch at every mood. She was born a player. Life was a quick succession of happy parts. She stepped from her rÔle on the stage into the rÔle she happened to be playing in the world.

Soon she was playing the happy comrade of Peter. He soon attended rehearsals regularly without prompting from Atterbury, and Atterbury usually made excuses to send them away to a friendly lunch. Atterbury was unable to resist the comedy of seeing them together. They inspired the most famously cruel of his social caricatures. Peter looked forlornly innocent beside her. Cytherea's Pilgrim, Atterbury named him. His simplicity and perpetual fervour aggravated the lightness of Vivette. In Atterbury's penetrating eye, each made a caricature of the other. It was a sense of this which threw them more and more closely together. Each was determined to touch the other and to make a proselyte. Peter wanted to be taken seriously by Vivette. Vivette wanted to see Peter come down from his golden throne.

Peter watched the first performance of the play from a box with his mother. Later he attended, without his mother, a supper party in the rooms of Vivette—a rambling flat among the chimneypots of Soho. She was bright with laughter and success, and Peter frowned to observe how easily she caught the mood of her company. He felt he would like to say or do something to bring depth into her eyes.

Peter and Atterbury were the last to leave, and they sat for a while to enjoy a friendly conversation. Vivette curled herself up.

"This is heavenly," she purred. "I simply love peace and quietness."

"I've noticed it," said Peter bitterly, surveying a litter of empty champagne bottles on the table behind them.

"Don't, Peter. You are spoiling the beautiful silence. Besides, your views are all wrong. The only people who really understand peace and quietness are people who also like a jolly good racket. We get it both ways."

"You always do," said Atterbury. "Life is the art of getting it both ways—eh, Vivette?"

"Not worth living," grunted Peter.

"That's your ignorance, Peter," said Vivette. Her eyes suggested a wicked godmother. "I don't know what's going to become of Peter," she added confidentially to Atterbury.

"You are really anxious?"

"Naturally. Peter's a temptation to all of us. He is so aggressively pure."

"You, at any rate, are safe," Atterbury audaciously hoped.

"For the time being," Vivette reassured him, "if Peter will only smile now and then. But he mustn't go on wearing his beautiful character like a medal."

Peter had bounded to the far end of the sofa. Now he rose, offering to go.

"You want to discuss me," he said.

"It doesn't matter, thank you; but if you really must—" Vivette held out her hand politely. Peter smacked it suddenly. Then he sat down again.

"What a wicked child," said Vivette, turning again to Atterbury. "Did you ever see such a temper? It's a curious thing about me," she added, discussing an interesting problem in character, "every man I have anything to do with sooner or later wants to hit me."

"Men like to be taken seriously."

"You never want to be taken seriously, do you, Jimmy?"

"I am not a typical man," retorted Atterbury.

"My men are never typical," said Vivette. "I hate typical men. I'm sure Peter isn't typical."

"He'll get there some day," Atterbury assured her.

"Not as far as that," she quickly hoped.

For the first time Peter detected a note of sincerity in her. He turned and found her jealously perusing him. He faintly coloured, and this time he really went.

After he had left them, Vivette and Atterbury looked intelligently at one another.

"I really mean it," she said at last. "I shouldn't like Peter to be a typical man."

"It will depend on his luck."

"You mean he must fall into the right hands?"

"When he does fall."

He looked at her keenly, and she coloured under his inspection.

"He mustn't fall into the hands of a nasty woman," she said.

"You would rather take him yourself?" Atterbury thoughtfully suggested.

"Sometimes, Jimmy, you are too familiar."

"I'm sorry," said Atterbury, beginning to look for his hat. "Let me thank you again for your beautiful acting. You saved my play to-night."