was here--oh,
I know he's horrible--you'd know you cared for Peter most. You mustn't
_say_ things, Rhoda; it makes them alive." Her eyes were wide and
frightened as she looked over Rhoda's head out of the window.

Slowly Rhoda quieted down, and lay numb and still.

"You won't tell Peter," she said; and Lucy said, "Oh, Rhoda!"

"Well, of course I know you wouldn't. Only that you and Peter tell one
another things without saying anything.... Peter belongs to you really,
you know, not to me at all. All he thinks and says and is--it's all
yours. He's never really been near _me_ like that, not from the
beginning. I was a silly to let him sacrifice himself for me the way he's
done. We don't belong really, Peter and I; however friendly we are, we
don't belong; we don't understand each other like you two do.... You
don't mind my saying that, do you?" for Lucy had dropped her hands and
fallen away.

"I mind your saying anything," said Lucy, "just now. Don't say things: it
makes them alive. It's hot, and you're tired, and I'm not going to stay
any more."

She got up from the floor and stood for a moment looking down at Rhoda.
Rhoda saw her eyes, how they were wet and strange and far-away, and full
of what seemed an immense weight of pity; pity for all the sadnesses of
mankind.

The next moment Lucy's cool finger-tips touched her forehead in a light
caress, and Lucy was gone.

CHAPTER XV

THE LOSS OF A WIFE

In September Peter and Rhoda had a son, whom they called Thomas, because,
Peter said, he had a sceptical look about the eyes and nose. Peter was
pleased with him, and he with Peter. Rhoda wasn't much interested; she
looked at him and said he was rather like Peter, and might be taken away
now, please.

"Like me?" Peter wondered dubiously. "Well, I know I'm not handsome,
but..."

Peggy, a born mother, took Thomas into her large heart at once, with her
out-at-elbows infants, and was angry with Rhoda for not showing more
interest.

"You'd think, from the way of her, that it was her thirteenth instead of
her first," she complained to Hilary. "I've no patience with the silly,
mooning child. She's nothing like good enough for Peter, and that's a
fact, and she'd have a right to realise it and try to improve for very
shame, instead of moping the way she does. It's my belief, Hilary, that
her silly little heart's away after the Vyvian man, whatever haunt of
wickedness he's adorning now. I don't want to believe i