And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in the town. He could get up and dress now--a cab would soon take him there ... in the early morning he could slink back. Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared. He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house.... And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him--Stephen, walking the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew. He would write to Stephen in the morning--he lay down and went to sleep. By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed. Alice, indeed, had a number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had become, during these weeks, very valuable to her.... She did not want him to marry anybody--especially she did not want him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter's ears, as though he were not concerned at all, she talked to Bobby-- “Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare beyond all bounds--” “Um?” “He's taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter--and so does she.” “Well, it's no business of ours--” Bobby's usual tolerant complacency. “It is. Clare might be a fine creature if she didn't let herself be spoiled in this way. She's perpetually selfish and she ought to be told so.” “We're all perpetually selfish,” said Bobby who began to be sorry for Peter. “Oh! no, we're not. I'm very fond of Clare but I don't envy the man who marries her. There's no one in the world more delightful when she has her own way and things go smoothly, but they've wrapped her up in cotton wool to such an extent that she simply doesn't know how to live out of it. She's positively terrified of _Life_.” This, as Alice had intended, was too much for Peter. He burst out-- “I think Miss Rossiter's the pluckiest girl I've ever met. She's afraid of nothing.” “Except of being uncomfortable,” Alice retorted. “That frightens her into fits. Make her uncomfortable, Peter, and you'll see--” And, red in the face, Peter answered--“I don't think you ought to talk of any one who's so fond of you behind her back in that way--” “Oh! I say just the same to her face. I'm always telling her these things and she always agrees and then's just as selfish as ever. That absurd little father of hers has spoilt her!” Spoilt! Clare spoilt! Peter smiled darkly. Alice Galleon--delightful woman though she was, of course couldn't endure that another woman should receive such praise--Jealousy! Ah!... And the aged and weighty author of “Reuben Hallard,” to whom the world was naturally an open book, and life known to its foundations, nodded to himself. How people, intelligent enough in other ways, could be so short-sighted!