And the result of that conversation was that, on that very night Peter made his appeal. They had had a silent evening (Mrs. Rossiter was staying in the house at this time), and at last they all had gone up to bed. Peter stayed for a moment in his dressing-room, seeing his white face in the looking-glass, hearing the beating of his heart and then with a hand that strangely trembled, knocked on Clare's door. Her voice sounded frightened, he thought, as she called to him to come in. Indeed, as he entered she folded a letter that she had been reading, and put it in a drawer in the dressing-table at which she was sitting. It was only seldom now that he disturbed her in that room. She had turned on the electric light over her dressing-table; the rest of the room was in darkness. She seemed to Peter very fragile and tiny as she sat there in her black evening frock, her breast rising and falling as though something had suddenly frightened her, her eyes wide and startled. He felt a gross, coarse brute as he stumbled, coming across the dark floor to her. “My God,” he cried in his heart, “put everything right now--let this make everything right.” His big square body flung huge fantastic shadows upon the wall, but he looked, as he faced her, like a boy who had come to his master to confess some crime. Apparently she was reassured now, for she took off her necklace and moved about the things on her table as though to show him that she was on the point of undressing. “Well, Peter, what is it?” she said. “I've come--Clare--just a moment--I want a talk.” “But it's late, I'm tired--won't some other time do?” “No, I want it now.” “What is it?” She was looking into the glass as she spoke to him. He pulled a little chair over to her and sat forward so that his knees nearly touched her thin black dress. He put out his big hand and caught one of her little ones; he thought for a moment that she was going to resist--then it lay there cold as ice. “Clare--darling--look here, everything's been wrong with both of us--for ages. And I've come--I've come--because I know it's been very largely my fault. And I've come to say that everything will be different now and I want you to let things--be--as they were before--” For a moment he fancied that he saw a light leap into her eyes; he felt her hand tremble for a moment in his. Then the expression was gone. “How do you mean?” she said, still looking into the glass. “What do you mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different.” “Oh yes, you have. You know that--ever since Stephen died and before that really--you've avoided me. You'd rather be without me than with me. You've all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed--the kid--a lot.” Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.