Irritation was rising within Peter. Why should it be concluded so inevitably that the fault was all on Peter's side and not at all on Clare's--after all, there were reasons... but he pulled himself up. He had behaved like a beast. “I've tried very hard--” he began. “Clouds--” said Mrs. Rossiter. “And you, Peter, are at times--I have seen it myself and I know that it is apparent to others--inclined to be morose--gloomy, a little gloomy--” Her fingers tapped the silk of her dress. “Dear Clare, considering what her own life has been, shrinks, I must confess it seems to me quite naturally, from any reminder of what your own earlier circumstances have been. Look at it, Peter, for an instant from the outside and you will see, at once, I am sure, what it must have been to her, yesterday, to come into her nursery, to find tables, chairs overturned, strange men shouting and flinging poor little Stephen towards the ceiling--some talk about Cornwall--really, Peter, I think you can understand...” He abandoned all his defences. “I know--I ought to have realised... it was quite natural...” In the back of his head he heard her words “You're morose--you're wild. Other people find you so--you're making a mess of everything and every one knows it--” He was humbled to the dust. If only he might make it all right with Clare, then he would see to it--Oh! yes he would see to it--that nothing of this kind ever happened again. From Mrs. Rossiter's standpoint he looked back upon his life and found it all one ignoble, selfish muddle. Dear Clare!--so eager to be happy and he had made her miserable. “Will she forgive me?” “Dear Clare,” said Mrs. Rossiter, rising brightly and with a general air of benevolence towards all the sinners in existence, “is the most forgiving creature in the world.” He went down to her bedroom and found her lying on a sofa and reading a novel. He fell on his knees at her side--“Clare--darling--I'm a beast, a brute--” She suddenly turned her face into the cushions and burst into passionate crying. “Oh! it's horrible--horrible--horrible--” He kissed her hand and then getting on to his feet again, stood looking at her awkwardly, struggling for words with which to comfort her. IV And then at luncheon, there was a little, pencilled feeble note for Peter from Norah Monogue. “Please, if you can spare half an hour come to me. In a day or two I am off to the country.” Things had just been restored to peace and happiness--Clare had just proposed that they should go, that afternoon, to a Private View together--they might go and have tea with-- For an instant he was tempted to abandon Norah. Then his courage came:-- “Here's a note from Miss Monogue,” he said. “She's awfully ill I think, I ought--” Clare's face hardened again. She got up from the table-- “Just as you please--” she said.