people, and for the colour and smoothness
of the sea we're going paddling in, and for our nice tea. _Are_ you
thankful, Thomas? Yes, I'm sure you are."

Someone, passing behind them, said with surprise, "Is that _you_,
Margerison?"

Peter, looking round, his tin mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other,
recognised an old schoolfellow. He was standing on the beach staring at
the tea-party--the four disreputable vagabonds and their cart.

Peter laughed. It rather amused him to come into sudden contact with the
respectable; they were always so much surprised. He had rather liked this
man. Some people had good-temperedly despised him for a molly-coddle; he
had been a delicate boy, and had cherished himself rather. Peter,
delicate himself, incapable of despising anyone, and with a heart that
went out to all unfortunates, had been, in a mild and casual way, his
friend. Looking into his face now, Peter was struck to sorrow and
compassion, because it was the face of a man who had accepted death, and
to whom life gave no more gifts, not even the peace of the lee shore. It
was a restless face, with hollow cheeks unnaturally flushed, and bitter,
querulous lips. His surprise at seeing Peter and his vagabond equipment
made him cough.

When he had done coughing, he said, "What _are_ you doing, Margerison?"

Peter said he was having tea. "Have you had yours? I've got another mug
somewhere--a china one."

As he declined with thanks, Peter thought, "He's dying. Oh, poor chap,
how ghastly for him," and his immense pity made him even gentler than
usual. He couldn't say, "How are you?" because he knew; he couldn't
say, "Isn't this a nice place?" because Ashe must leave it so soon; he
couldn't say, "I am having a good time," because Ashe would have no
more good times, and, Peter suspected, had had few.

What he did say was, "This is Thomas. And this is San Francesco, and this
is Suor Clara. They're all mine. Do you like their faces?"

Ashe looked at Francesco, and said, "Rather a mongrel, isn't he?" and
Peter took the comment as condemning the four of them, and divined in
Ashe the respectability of the sheltered life, and was compassionate
again. Ashe cared, during the brief space of time allotted to him, to be
respectably dressed; he cared to lead what he would call a decent life.
Peter, in his disreputability, felt like a man in the open air who looks
into the prison of a sick-room.

Ashe said he was staying at Varenzano with