frequently did, "Your
brother's find. A delicious little man in some _sotto-portico_ or
other--quite an admirable person. Eh, Margerison?"

Hilary in the background would vaguely assent. Peter, who looked at him
no more, felt the indefinable challenge of his tone. It meant either,
"I've as much right to my artistic taste as you have, Peter, and I'm
not ashamed of it," or, "Speak out, if you want to shatter the illusions
that make the happiness of his ridiculous life; if not, be silent."

And all the time the vivid stare of Jim Cheriton was turned like a
search-light on Peter's face, and his odd smile grew and grew. Cheriton
was watching, observing, taking in something new, trying to solve some
problem.

At the end of half an hour Lord Evelyn said, "Peter Margerison, you've
lost some of the religious fervour of your youth. The deceitfulness of
riches and the cares of this world--is that it? What's come to you that
you're so tepid about this Siena chalice? Don't be tepid, young Peter;
it's the symptom of a ruined soul."

He polished his glass, screwed it into his left eye, and looked down on
Peter with his whimsical, kindly scrutiny. Peter did not return the look;
he stood with bent head, looking vaguely down at the Sienese chalice.
That too was one of Hilary's finds. Hilary it seemed, had approved its
seller in an article in the Gem.

"Damme," said Lord Evelyn suddenly, with unusual explosiveness, "if I
didn't like you better when you were fifteen! Now, you _blase_ and
soulless generation, I suppose you want to play bridge. Do you play as
badly as ever, Peter? A remarkable player you were, I remember--quite
remarkable. Denis always told you so. Now Cheriton will tell you so,
because he's rude."

Bridge was a relief to Peter, though he was still a rather remarkable
player. He played with Cheriton, who was not rude, because he was
absolutely silent. It was an absurd game. Cheriton was a brilliant
player, even when he was only giving half his mind to it, as he seemingly
was to-night. Lord Evelyn had been a brilliant player once, and was now
brilliant with alternations of eccentricity; he talked most of the time,
making the game the centre of his remarks, from which he struck out along
innumerable paths of irrelevancy. The Margerisons too were irrelevant;
Hilary thought bridge a bore, and Peter, who thought nothing a bore, was
always a little alarmed by anything so grown-up. But to-night he didn't
much mind what he di