iked you a good
deal?"

"Yes," said Peter, and Lord Evelyn started.

"You did? Demme! that's her again. She always guessed everything, and
so did you. She guessed I cared.... You're her own child--only she was
lovely, you know, and you're not, don't think it.... Well, she had her
follies, like you--a romantic child, she always was.... You must go
your own way, young Peter. I'll not hinder or help you till you want
me.... And now I'm tired; I've talked too much. I'm not going to ask you
to lunch with me, for I don't want you. Leave me now."

Peter paused for a moment still. He wanted to ask questions, and could
not.

"Well, what now? Oh, I see; you want the latest news of your Denis and
Lucy. Well, they're doing as well as can be expected. Denis--I need
hardly say, need I?--flourishes like the green bay tree in all his works.
He's happy, like you. No, not like you a bit; he's got things to be
happy about; his happiness isn't a reasonless lunacy; it's got a sound
bottom to it. The boy is a fine boy, probably going to be nearly as
beautiful as Denis, but with Lucy's eyes. And Lucy's happy enough, I
hope. Knows Denis inside and out, you know, and has accepted him, for
better or worse. I don't believe she's pining for you, if that's what
you want to know. You may be somewhere deep down at the bottom of her
always--shouldn't wonder if you are--but she gives the top of her to
Denis all right--and more than that to the boy--and all of her to life
and living, as she always did and always must. You two children seem to
be tied to life with stronger ropes than most people, an't you. Sylvia
was, before you. Not to any one thing in life, or to many things, but
just to life itself. So go and live it in your own way, and don't bother
me any more. You've tired me out."

Peter said good-bye, and went. He loved Lord Evelyn, and his eyes
were sad because he had thrown back his offer on his hands. He didn't
think Lord Evelyn had many more years before him, though he was only
fifty-five; and for a moment he wondered whether he couldn't, after all,
accept that offer till the end came. He even, at the garden wall, hung
for a moment in doubt, with the echo of that high, wistful voice in his
ears.

But before him the white road ran down from the olive-grey hills to the
little gay town by the blue sea's edge, and the sweetness of the scented
hills in the May sunshine caught him by the throat, and, questioning no
more, he took the road.