Meanwhile up in Bobby's dusty old room, called by courtesy “The Study” but having little evidence of literature about it save an edition of Whyte-Melville and a miscellaneous collection of Yellow-backs, Peter had poured out his soul: “Bobby, I feel as though I'd just been set up with my back against the wall for every one to make shies at. Everything's going wrong--everything. The ground's crumbling from under my feet. First it's young Stephen, then it's Clare, then my book fails (don't let's humbug--you know it's an utter failure) then I quarrel with Cards, then that damned woman--” he stopped at the thought of Mrs. Rossiter and drove his hands together. Then he went on more quietly. “It's like fighting in a fog, Bobby. There's the thing I want somewhere, just beside me--I want Clare, Clare as she used to be when we were first married--but I can't get at her and yet, through it all, I don't know what it is that stops me. “I know I hadn't thought of her enough--with the book and Stephen and everything. Cards told me that pretty straight--but now I've seen all that and I'm ready to do anything--anything if she'll only love me again.” “Go directly to her and tell her,” said Bobby; “have it all out in the open with her.” “That's just it,” Peter answered, “I never seem to get her alone. There's always either her mother or Cards there. Cards sees her alone much more than I do, but, of course, she likes his company better than mine just now. I'm such a gloomy beggar--” “Nonsense,” said Bobby roughly. “You believe anything that any one tells you. They tell you that you're gloomy and depressing and so you think you are. They didn't find you gloomy at Brockett's did they? And Alice and I have never found you depressing. Don't listen to that woman. Clare's always been under her influence and it's for you to take her out of it--not to lie down quietly and say she's too much for you--but there's another thing,” he added slowly and awkwardly, after a moment's pause. “What's that?” asked Peter. “Well--Cards,” said Bobby at last. “Oh! I know you'll say I hate him. But I don't. I don't hate him. I've always known him for what he was--in those days at Dawson's when if you flattered him he was kind, and if you didn't he was contemptuous. At Cambridge it was the same. There was only one fellow there I ever saw him knock under to--a man called Dune--and he was out and away exceptional anyhow, at games and work and everything. Now _he_ made Cards into a decent fellow for the time being, and if he'd had the running of him he might have turned all that brilliance into something worth having. “But he vanished and Cards has never owned his master since. Everything was there, ready in him, to be turned one way or the other, and after he left Cambridge there was his silly mother and a sillier London waiting to finish him--now he's nothing but Vanity and Fascination--and soon there'll be nothing but Vanity.” “You're unjust to him, Bobby, you always have been.